Father's Day
by In the House
Summary: Thomas Thornton visits Princeton, and he and House try spending a day alone together as a test. Follows the Hopes and Fears of All the Years in the Pranks series.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: House, Cuddy, et al are not my property. Thomas Thornton, Jensen, Abby, Patterson, Belle, and anybody else you didn't see on your TV screen during the series are my property.

Series: This story follows the Hopes and Fears of All the Years in the Pranks series. See the listing in my profile for all of them starting from the first, When Pranks Go Wrong - and for other non Pranks stories for variety if you'd like. Each Pranks story does have its own plot arc, but you'll miss an awful lot of background in the current Thornton sequence if you haven't read at least Verdict, Legacy, and Hopes and Fears before tackling this one. The next story after this one will have a strong case focus and a lot of work and team going on, just in case you're starting to get tired of Thomas. However, we're not to that one for a while yet, and Father's Day (naturally) continues to focus mainly on the relationship between House and his biological father.

Reminder: The Pranks series diverged from the TV show in the middle of the Greater Good. Nothing after that from TV happened in this universe, and no information given later (including father details, etc.) applies to Pranks. However, it might have been a later episode that first gave me the idea for this story. :) I won't tell you now which episode, but you should be able to guess once we get there. :) :) I go completely different directions with that seed idea than Shore did, though.

Enjoy Father's Day. Short first chapter as an appetizer, but it gains speed fairly quickly, and this story has a lot of meat on its bones. It is a full meal, not a fluffy dessert. Thank you to all the loyal readers out there.

(H/C)

"Go. Treat." House capped the marker with a flourish, another case completed, and the team stood from their seats around the table and headed for the elevator. He could feel the antennae still pointed backwards even as they left the room. The problem with training diagnosticians was that they sometimes widened the focus beyond just the current patient and started analyzing other irrelevant things. Such as why he was on edge today.

Not that he was especially on edge today, he insisted to himself. He limped into his office and picked up his ball, starting a bounce pattern against the wall. This weekend didn't matter that much, and even with an epic fail, he would still have his family, and nothing that mattered would have changed. He was just . . . he debated words for a minute, rejecting the first several to come to mind before selecting curious. Nice, bland term, could apply to anything.

The return to Lexington at the end of January had gone smoothly, so smoothly that he had spent the month since analyzing it from every possible direction, inspecting for anything he had missed. Thornton and Cuddy grew closer all the time. He knew that she called him a few times a week now just to talk, and watching them together that weekend had been a wonder. Of course, she lacked the Everest of background that he was laboriously summiting himself, but still, she hadn't had that much time with Thornton, and she was already closer to him than to her own father.

As for the girls, Rachel was a fan for life. House had already resigned himself to an eventual pony once she was a little older; she would never let the subject drop at this point. Even Abby, while still watching, was warming up to the old man. Thornton was _so_ good with the girls. Given only a little more time, he would have both granddaughters wrapped around his little finger - or vice versa.

That was the issue that House kept coming down to in differential the last month, Thornton and the girls. He no longer thought the old man was an actual danger to them, although he still would be watching like a hawk, of course. As he should. As any parent should. But seeing how much Thornton enjoyed the girls and Cuddy's company, House couldn't help wondering again where he stood himself. Even in the phone conversations and emails between them since that visit, the girls were often mentioned. Was it the girls after all who were the real attraction? What would happen on further exposure to himself, once the old man knew him better? Would he turn away then? He was slowly worming his way into granddaughters; maybe at that point, he would have what he was after.

Jensen had given him that quietly amused look when he finally, awkwardly wondered that aloud. "He _does_ like you, too," the psychiatrist had assured him.

"It isn't a question of liking; I'm just wondering what his real goal is," House had countered. "He doesn't even _know_ me. You can't like somebody you don't know. No data to go on."

"He wants to know you better, but the fact isn't going to change once he does. He is interested in _you_, Dr. House, not just the girls, and you aren't going to fade with him on closer acquaintance. People who really get to know you like you _better_ the closer you let them get."

As often as Jensen said something like that, the thought was still hard to accept. House bounced the ball rhythmically, trying to settle his thoughts. Tomorrow loomed. A test, he had called it mentally. One day with no girls or even Cuddy as a buffer, one undiluted, raw dose of him to see if the old man would have had enough and be getting tired of him by the end of it. Lab results could assist a differential, after all. Yes, this was a lab test. Nothing more. The results didn't really matter, whichever answer was delivered, and would just be another piece of data to add to the whiteboard of his mind. He wasn't aware of how hard the ball was striking the wall until Wilson spoke from the doorway.

"You're going to knock that wall down at this rate."

House immediately changed the direction of his next bounce. His aim was faultless, but Wilson dodged, and the ball sailed out the door, slicing through a passing group of two nurses and a doctor. They pulled up sharply, glanced toward the office, and then walked on without comment other than a roll of the eyes. Wilson grinned. "Missed."

"Oh, shut up. And go get that ball."

"Get it yourself," Wilson replied. "You threw it."

House started to get up, but Wilson went after the ball before he was fully balanced on his feet. "All right, if you're going to go all dramatic, I'll get it. Can't have you losing your balls." That last sentence was loud enough to be overhead through the hall. "Here you are." He reentered with the ball, then hesitated, looking at his friend, who was now standing up. "You're not - not _totally_ - being dramatic, are you? Is your leg hurting worse today?"

House limped over to him and snatched the ball before Wilson could annoyingly assign psychosomatic reasons to that fact. "Mind your own business, Wilson."

Wilson glanced out the window. Not bad weather for the beginning of March, certainly not warm yet, but the month was choosing the lamb over the lion. The oncologist walked over to one of the seats in front of the desk, sitting down so that House hopefully would himself. "This weekend is going to go all right," he stated. "For you, at least."

"So now you're an oracle. I . . . wait a minute. For _me_, at least? You're worried about _your_ weekend?"

Wilson took a deep breath and reached into a pocket, pulling out the small box. He handed it across the desk silently.

"Sorry, Wilson, but you're too late. I'm already married." House already was breaking into a smile even as he tossed the irresistible quip across the desk. He picked up the box and opened it, studying the ring. "It's about time."

"I wanted to be sure I was ready. I don't want to do this again; four times is more than enough." Wilson smoothed his tie with restless fingers. "Do you think she'll say yes?"

"_Yes_, I think she'll say yes. Congratulations. When are you going to pop the question?"

"I thought maybe tomorrow afternoon, once Daniel is down for his nap. She's had a rough week this week at work; two patients died. We'll just have a family night tonight and let her unwind some." House looked at his watch, and Wilson noticed. "What time does Thornton's plane get in?"

"3:00. Cuddy should be here any minute, right on . . . schedule," he finished as Cuddy appeared in the doorway.

"We need to get going, Greg." She suddenly spotted the ring and came over for a closer inspection, and House handed her the box. "_Nice_. When are you going to ask her?"

"Tomorrow afternoon, hopefully," Wilson replied. "If that isn't the moment, I'll definitely do it some time this weekend. Do _you_ think she'll say yes?"

"Yes," Cuddy agreed. "Congratulations, Wilson." She returned the ring to him, then turned to face her husband, her posture full of schedule mania crossed with sympathetic understanding. "We ought to be heading for Newark."

"Too early," he grumbled, though he promptly started to stand up. She, too, seemed to detect some extra tension in his leg; he saw her eyes narrow and quickly pushed on. "We don't really have to work in a traffic buffer today. If he lands before we get there, he'll just wait for us. Not like we could get rid of him if we tried."

Cuddy closed in next to him as they started to the door, not too close to crowd him but close enough that he felt her presence. "Good luck this weekend, House," Wilson called after them.

"You, too. Not that you'll need it."

Wilson watched them leave, then gave the ring one final inspection before pocketing it. Finally, he stood up and turned out the lights in House's office on his way out. He hadn't said, not now at least, that his friend's courage this weekend had been what made him pick this weekend for himself. He had no doubts at all about Sandra and had intended to do this anyway, had had the ring for two weeks, but he had been waiting for the perfect moment, and none so far had presented. Either she had had a bad day, or he had, or Daniel was fussy, or something. This weekend. He _would_ do it this weekend. He hoped House would give Thornton a chance himself tomorrow instead of challenging from the start, but he was still amazed that his friend had suggested the day at all. No safety net, no buffers, just the two of them alone. Extendedly alone. It was precisely the sort of pinned-down situation House usually avoided. "Good luck, House," he repeated, and he added after a moment, "Good luck, Thornton."

(H/C)

Thomas almost had his nose pressed to the window next to his first class seat on the plane as he watched the landscape whip by underneath them. The plane was descending now and had dropped below the clouds, and he could see the ground clearly, even if not the airport yet. One word resonated throughout his soul. _Invited_. He wasn't creeping into New Jersey the back way this time and hiding or attempting to, at least, in the rear of the crowd. This time, he was invited. He would be met at the airport, would be going to their house tonight instead of a hotel, and they would all have an evening as a family, even if one not fully acknowledged yet.

Then tomorrow. As much as he was looking forward to tonight, he was looking forward even more to tomorrow. Just he and his son, finally, spending a day together. He would have to be careful not to be too eager with Greg; he knew he could still spook his son by coming on too strong. Still, the taming after the example of the Little Prince was working, and the fox was coming up right beside him now, even if not fully pettable yet. In the privacy of the plane, Thomas didn't try to hide his feelings. He pushed even closer to the window and watched the ground, willing it to pass even faster, cutting away the distance left between, bringing them together.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Thanks for the reviews! A couple of people have wondered now over the last story and this one about Cuddy's parents and how they will react to Thomas. We will get there eventually, but it won't be in this story. The series mentally runs right now through the next two stories, both of those full-length ones which are developing. There's always a possibility for my muse to revise/adjust/throw in another along the way, especially before the second one out, which is very new and just forming. The story after Father's Day _is_ the story after Father's Day, definitely. That's the team case.

I have always loved that part of the Little Prince. And yes, the fox really does wish to be tamed. :)

Enjoy chapter 2.

(H/C)

House kept stealing glances at Cuddy as they sat in the waiting area. She was the picture of anticipation. Not tension, or rather only as a reflection of his, but for herself, she was simply looking forward to seeing the old man. How could everybody else be so sure of him already? Or was it everybody else who was the point here? He shifted a little. His leg was indeed worse than baseline today, which he doggedly refused to put down to his own nerves. He had a legitimate medical condition, after all. All the doctors including even Jensen the mind wizard agreed on that. Pain didn't require some deeper meaning; it was often just _pain_. Once again, he let his imagination go to the desk of a pharmaceutical company and tell them exactly what he thought of the term "painkillers." If only. Things killed were supposed to stay _dead_, not refuse to ever flat line at all.

Dead. Like his mother. Her death still hurt, surprising him at times as a memory caught him off guard and pounced. Some moment in his day would abruptly remind him of her, even _stupid_ little things. Things like the airport just now. The last time he had sat here waiting, it had been for her flight to arrive for their last Christmas ever together. At least the airport gate was different today. The feelings of guilt over not grilling her on her health were getting better; several sessions with Jensen over the weeks had done that much. The psychiatrist had told him, and he had to agree himself, that she almost certainly would have lied to them, and nothing would have changed. But her loss still hurt.

He realized Cuddy was watching him with that unspoken worried look again. Damn. He wondered suddenly if part of her offer to come with him this afternoon to Newark wasn't only to see Thornton faster but to give him company on the trip, to help distinguish it from that last one. Either way, he was more glad of her presence than he would ever be able to say. Tomorrow was soon enough for one-on-one. Tonight, he welcomed the buffer.

"Flight 134 arriving from St. Louis," the PA system announced.

House hauled himself to his feet gingerly. He would put on a heat patch once he got home, and maybe that would help keep his leg from being such a vocal uninvited guest tonight. Too much else would be going on tonight; he needed to be able to focus without distractions. Cuddy came gracefully to her feet beside him and edged a little closer. "This is _nothing_ like last time," he said abruptly. "Last time, they were playing Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer and had those damned tinsel and lights all around." Cuddy laughed, but the quiet squeeze of her hand on his said more, and he returned the pressure of her fingers.

The passengers started emerging from the tunnel. Thornton was among the first few, and the undiluted eagerness in the old man's eyes and stride startled House. He came straight up to them, smiling. "Hello, Greg."

House analyzed that for further meaning but failed. He always felt awkward during the first few moments of any conversation with his father, on the phone and even more in person. "Hi," he said softly. Thornton looked at Cuddy, who had been hanging back slightly and letting the two men meet first, and House caught the glance and the wish behind it. "Oh, go ahead and do what you really want to," he said, retreating half a step.

_I wish I could_, Thomas thought. But he knew better. Not now, not yet. Maybe never, and if Greg could never be totally at ease with physical contact, he certainly would understand that. But he was looking forward to the day when they could share silent hugs, at least, two spirits nodding warmly to each other and acknowledging the bond between them. Instead, he paused long enough to make it clear that he was moving on past his first wish, and then he turned to his daughter-in-law, hugging her tightly. "Hi, Lisa."

"Thomas. _So _good to see you." She gave him an extra squeeze, then stepped back a little to eye him critically. She hadn't seen him in over a month. "You're looking better."

He smiled at her. "What was I looking like before?"

House abruptly found himself pulled back into the conversation. The old man was absolutely _asking_ to be teased there. It was all over his tone. "Well, I could think of a few options, especially that one morning, but she probably would object to me saying so."

Cuddy elbowed him firmly in the ribs. "Shut up, Greg," she said, but her tone had relaxed, and the awkward first moment slipped away.

Thornton looked from one to the other of them, and he was serious suddenly. "I guarantee, neither one of you have ever seen me at my best."

Cuddy shook her head. "I beg to differ." She became aware of the crowd again and turned toward the baggage claim. "We'd better get your suitcase and head for Princeton. The girls are waiting, and they'll be driving Marina nuts."

House looked at his watch. Under two minutes until mention of the girls, although it had been Cuddy and not Thornton who introduced the subject. Did that disqualify it from statistical significance?

Cuddy and Thomas were chatting comfortably as they walked toward the carousel, both of them holding the pace down for House but at least being subtle about it. They arrived and watched the luggage dropping down onto the wheel.

"Not here yet," Thomas said. "I hope it made it to the right state. Hope it's even still in the right country."

"I'll bet you've seen some royal screw-ups," House said. As much traveling as the old man had done over the years, military and otherwise, it was bound to have happened.

Thomas laughed. "The worst one that caught up with me eventually was a suitcase that somehow went to Greece instead of Austin, Texas."

Cuddy rolled her eyes. "Because those two are _so _close together," she commented, but she was watching the chute more critically now, as if she could administrate it into correct baggage distribution just by adequate supervision.

"And that's just the worst that made it home. I _still_ have two bags out there somewhere. They've been gone for decades, and I wonder sometimes where they finally ended up." Thomas came to attention. "Here it is." He scooped the suitcase off the carousel with an ease that sent a stab of envy through House. "Welcome to New Jersey," he announced, addressing the suitcase. "And I'm _very_ glad you made it."

Cuddy gave him another hug. "Welcome to New Jersey yourself," she told him.

"He _has_ been to the state before, Lisa," House grumbled. "It's not like a foreign country."

Thomas looked at him, flipped a mental coin, then seized the opportunity. "Actually, I've been here twice."

"I meant on trips that involved me," House clarified.

"So did I. I wasn't counting general travel."

"The trial. That's only _one_," House challenged. "What else was there?"

Thomas turned toward the doors. "I'll tell you once we're in the car," he promised. "Come on; we can't keep the girls waiting." House looked at his watch as he and Cuddy started after him. Fifteen minutes from arrival until he had mentioned the girls himself.

Fortunately, Cuddy's car wasn't far, waiting in the handicapped slot. Thomas' suitcase was stowed in the trunk, and then Cuddy climbed into the back seat, leaving the front available. House disliked back-seat travel, which was only comfortable if he turned sideways to stretch out, and Thomas most likely had the same long-leg difficulty, though not the disability adding to it. She wouldn't make him fold himself up back here. He followed the thought and shot her a grateful look as he climbed in on the passenger's side.

House put the keys in the ignition but didn't turn it on yet. Instead, he twisted to face the old man. "What was the second time?" he demanded.

"Actually, it was the first time. Back when you were in the hospital with your leg, I flew up to visit you."

House stared at him. "Clear from St. Louis?"

"Yes. Blythe called me and told me how ill you were. I just wanted to see you." House shook his head. "You were asleep, Greg. I stood there watching for several minutes, but when you shifted a little like you were waking up, I left. I wasn't trying to start anything, especially not then. I only wanted to see you," he repeated.

"You flew clear up here to spend a few minutes looking at me? Several hundred bucks of tickets for five minutes without saying anything?"

"Yes," Thomas replied. He wasn't sure if his son looked disbelieving or confused. "You were in the ICU," he offered. "The third room on the right as you went through the doors."

House's eyes widened. After a moment, he turned away and started the car. There was a brief silence as he pulled out onto the road, and then Thomas filled it. "How are the girls?"

Cuddy spoke up from the back seat. "They're fine. Really looking forward to seeing you. Rachel kept asking if you were going to bring Ember."

House relaxed a little. "She hasn't let it alone." But she had mentioned the old man himself as often as she had the horse. "You realize what you've done here? We're going to _have_ to buy her a pony eventually now, and it's all your fault. I ought to send you the bills."

Thomas shrugged. "I'd be glad to pay them, if you want. But lots of parents have managed to survive ponies. It's even a phase with some kids, and they grow out of it. I doubt she will, though. You said she was keyed especially on the horses watching that parade, and that was even before the Christmas gifts. How's Abby?"

"She can actually read a little bit of music now," House offered. "Just getting going with a few words, too, and those increase all the time."

"That music game has helped with her," Cuddy told Thomas. "Following the notes across the bottom really makes the point. I was afraid Rachel would want to play with it and would get Abby jealous, but she doesn't seem that interested in music anymore except listening to Greg play. And Abby isn't interested in the stuffed horse at all. But they each love their gift. You chose really well on those." She smiled at him as he looked back between the seats at her, and then she tightened up.

"What's wrong, Lisa?" Thomas asked. House barely glanced at her in the rearview mirror. He already knew, and the same point had even occurred to him. Purely as a case of similarity, of course, a similar beginning reminding him of the past. That was all there was to it.

Cuddy sat to the front of the seat, getting closer to the two men. "Thomas," she said firmly in her sternest supervisory voice, "are you _sure_ you are in good shape physically? If there's anything wrong, any symptoms you've been having, don't keep them to yourself."

Thomas looked from one to the other of them, her leaning forward, consumed by the intensity of the question, his son staring straight ahead at the road but with his own tension increased from a moment ago. There was a sympathetic understanding in his tone as he replied. "I'm fine. I promise. I had a complete physical last fall, and I'm not having any symptoms. And if, purely hypothetically, understand, I _do_ start feeling off, I would have the sense to let someone know."

She relaxed. "I'll hold you to that," she insisted. "It's not just us, but think about the effect on the girls."

"I'm fine," he repeated. "It's all right, Lisa."

"Let it go, Lisa," House insisted. "You're the one who said a little while ago that he was looking better." But he, too, felt a knot inside him loosen a little. The old man really _was_ looking better. Not that he had looked ill before, although he certainly had looked dead tired that Wednesday. But now, he seemed like some inner light was burning brighter than it had.

Because of the girls? Cuddy? Or was it in some small part at least due to him?

House drove on toward Princeton, quietly listening to and admiring their easy conversation, throwing in an occasional comment. He didn't even notice until he was entering the city limits that the pain in his leg was a little bit better.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Good morning, and thanks for all the reviews. Short chapter, but all I had time for. We'll have a few covering the family evening, and then Saturday, it's off to the races for the bulk of this story and a lot of things going on between Thomas and House.

(H/C)

Thomas studied the house with frank curiosity as his son pulled into the driveway. Neat and orderly, at least from the outside, and very nicely landscaped, though not with Blythe's personal touch. He pegged it as Lisa's house that Greg had moved into, not vice versa. Once they parked in the garage, though, he was totally focused on the door. The essence of a home is in its people, and he was looking forward to seeing his granddaughters again. The promised family evening all together stretched out before him, every moment to be savored, even though he expected the highlight of this trip to be tomorrow as he finally, for the first time in his life, got the chance to spend quality time alone with Greg. He quickly got out of the car, then waited while Lisa climbed out and while Greg stalled, obviously stretching his exit from the driver's seat far beyond that physically required.

Cuddy held back her sigh and popped the trunk from her key fob. "We might as well go ahead and take your suitcase in now. Saves another trip back out tonight." Thomas walked around to retrieve it.

House finally closed the driver's door. Every sense was focused on the other man, and he could feel the anticipation in him, like an electric current. Those enticing granddaughters were only a door away.

The distance quickly became even less as House's dragging his feet produced the inevitable result. Rachel managed to get the door from the house open and came running out, trotting nimbly down the two steps into the garage. "Thomas!" She ran to him, and he put down his suitcase and bent to give her a quick hug.

"Hi, Rachel."

Marina and Abby appeared at the door. Rachel was going a mile a minute. "You finally came! Can you stay? Where's Ember? My Ember says hi." She squeezed the whinny ear on her beloved stuffed horse.

Cuddy pried Rachel away from Thomas' leg. "We can all talk once we get inside, Rachel. You have to give him room to walk while he's got the suitcase. Were you a good girl for Marina today?"

"Uh huh." Rachel finally backed away from Thomas.

"They were both good," Marina put in from the doorway. "Excited, though."

Rachel rounded the car, bouncing up to her father. "Daddy! Ember says hi." The horse whinnied again. House studied Thomas, gauging. "Ember says hi!" Rachel insisted from knee level, the horse now snorting as well as whinnying at him.

"Hi, Rachel. Hi, Ember." He picked her up, setting his balance carefully first. It was more of an effort now, especially on bad days. How long would he be able to do this?

Rachel noticed. "Was it hell leg day?"

Cuddy sighed aloud that time, Thomas couldn't help a quickly stifled grin - not at his son's pain but at her way of phrasing the question - and House noticed and started for the door with an annoyed tilt to his shoulders and even more stiffness in the damned leg than he had felt earlier this afternoon. "No," he replied finally. "I'm fine." Upon reaching the stairs, he first set Rachel down inside the house, not trying to climb them while holding her. Part of him stubbornly wanted to try it, just as a statement, but falling wouldn't be the kind of statement he had in mind, and more importantly, falling with his daughter was a risk he didn't want to take. Marina and the girls backed away, and Cuddy and Thornton watched behind him. He felt the eyes from both directions.

Finally in, he gave Rachel's shoulder a squeeze, then picked up Abby. "Hi, Abby."

"Hi, Daddy." The blue eyes were too perceptive at close range, and he set her back down.

Cuddy and Thomas climbed the stairs, and House couldn't help noticing how easily the old man did it, even carrying the suitcase. Cuddy greeted both of her daughters, and Thomas put down his suitcase and turned to Abby. "Hi, Abby."

"Hi, Thomas," she replied.

He tilted his head, studying her. "You're growing," he noted.

Cuddy smiled. "She does seem to be getting taller the last month. Greg thinks she's finally starting to go into a growth spurt. Maybe she'll try to make up for lost time."

House walked on through the house to the living room. It was where he felt most at home here, aside from their bedroom, and the old man didn't have license to go that far yet. Thomas trailed him, along with both girls, and Cuddy gave him a sympathetic look and then turned to Marina. The nanny had promised to start making dinner preparations, and indeed, the main dish was all ready to slide into the oven, the vegetables sliced and ready for cooking. "Thanks, Marina. I don't know how I would have managed it all myself before bedtime." Bedtime, of course, would probably be a very fluid value tonight. Even Abby was excited, and Rachel was nearly vibrating.

"I'm glad to help." Marina walked back into the living room to pick up her purse. "Good bye, girls. I'll see you Monday. Everybody have fun this weekend." She smiled at Thomas, then left.

Thomas was drifting around the living room now, soaking up the atmosphere. Rachel was his tour guide, pointing out this or that, divided into the two main categories of her world: "Can't touch," and "okay." The interior of the house was a nice mix of his son and Lisa, not nearly as much hers alone as the outside. The baby grand dominated the room in more than just size. He walked over and looked at it, careful not to touch, remembering his father's. This one had a special cushion on the bench, he noted. A beautiful instrument. Next to the people, it was the physical soul of this home.

As for the rest of the room, the couch and chairs matched and were neatly arranged, but the many books on the wall were eclectic. There was an ample selection of DVDs and CDs, too, including a lower shelf of children's movies for the girls. Blythe's little desk was here, along with a somewhat larger one while still not full office sized. There were also pictures, not a solid wall of them like Blythe's but neatly arranged in appropriate points throughout the room. They were mostly of Greg, Lisa, and the girls in various combinations. He noticed his drawing of Blythe, framed, as well as another picture of her. One of Lisa with a couple, probably her parents. Everyone was smiling, but there was a hint of reserve there in her posture. Nothing like the body language in Greg's childhood shots, but still, Thomas wondered about her parents.

Overall, it was definitely a family's room but neat and efficient, although he had a feeling that it would accumulate an item or two out of place the longer Greg was in it. It obviously had just been cleaned; not a speck of dust visible. They probably hired a housekeeper, and Lisa would have made sure to schedule a visit for today before he arrived. Not that he cared how spic and span the place was when he got here, but he knew that it would matter to her. They most likely hired someone to do the yard work in the summer, too. He couldn't see Lisa with a lawnmower or weedeater any more than he could Greg, though for different reasons.

Cuddy had taken the suitcase back to the guest room, and by the time she rejoined the group, Rachel was pulling out a few of her movies to show Thomas before putting them back. Abby was switching attention constantly between Thomas and her father, looking a little worried. House, of course, had drifted to the piano as usual when he was uneasy, touching it, drawing stability from it.

"Dinner should be ready in about 45 minutes," Cuddy announced, looking at her watch. "Until then . . ."

"Relax, Lisa." Thomas gave her a smile. "This is a nice house. Friendly but organized."

"You expected something less with her living here?" House asked.

"Not at all. It's almost exactly what I had pictured." Thomas broke off as the family member he hadn't met yet entered the room. The white cat paused at the end of the hall, eying him, tail waving slowly. She had uncomfortably intense golden eyes, and they sized up every inch of him right now. "Hello there," he said.

Rachel looked around. "Belle!" She bounded over to the cat, changing speed halfway as Belle pulled back just enough to remind her to approach gently. Rachel dropped to the floor, petting the cat. "This is Belle," she said to Thomas.

"I figured that. She looks like a fine cat." Belle gave him a cold look as if unable to conceive of any other kind of cat.

"Say hi!" Rachel insisted.

"He already did," House commented. The pain in his leg had increased steadily since arriving home, and he sat down on the piano bench, sinking gratefully into the black cushion, hoping the old man hadn't noticed its presence.

Rachel shook her head. "Not like that, Daddy." She stroked Belle a few times in illustration. "Say hi, Thomas."

Thomas instead walked to the recliner and sat down. "Why don't I let her come say hi to me? Cats like to introduce themselves when they feel like it. She'd rather make it her idea."

"You have a cat, Thomas?" Abby asked.

"No, Abby. I used to. I've had several over the years but not one right now." Their last cat had died at the age of 18 about the time that Emily's treatments were doing nothing for her but making things worse, and Thomas had been too focused on her illness to even think of a replacement. In some ridiculous way, replacing the cat seemed to him like it would be accepting not just the previous feline's death but Emily's eventual death, too, and moving on. He had thought of getting another a few times in recent months but put the decision off until the question of where he wound up living was settled. Cats were notorious worshipers of routine, and no feline would appreciate a cross-country move. "I know a few cats out at the stable where Ember is, though."

"Ember likes cats?"

"Yes, Ember likes cats. Most horses do. A lot of stables have cats living in them." For practical reasons, although he didn't push that point with Rachel right now. Even nowadays, no other rodent control system could match a good barn cat.

Belle, meanwhile, was slowly approaching, pausing every now and then to nonchalantly lick a shoulder or look in another direction. Finally, she arrived at Thomas' feet. She sniffed them over thoroughly, then up his jeans legs, finally rearing up and then jumping onto the arm of the recliner. He held still, and when she had finished a thorough survey of his person, he reached out slowly to scratch her ears. "Hello, Belle." She leaned into his fingers for a few seconds, then pulled away and jumped down, trotting over to House. "I guess that was what you two would call a CAT scan," Thomas said.

Cuddy laughed, and even House relaxed a little into a brief grin. Belle, at his feet, sniffed his legs and shoes, then jumped up onto the piano bench beside him. She started to climb onto his bad thigh to arrange herself, and he firmly deposited her back on the floor. No, the cat wasn't going to join the rest of them this evening in drawing attention to his leg. Belle stalked off, tail erect.

Cuddy looked at her watch again, timing dinner, and disappeared into the kitchen to check on its progress. Rachel retrieved another of her movies and handed it to Thomas. "Let's watch a movie!" she suggested.

"Not right now." Thomas looked at his own watch. "I don't think we have time before we eat, Rachel. Maybe later."

Abby walked over to her father and touched him lightly on his good leg. "Play, Daddy," she requested.

House started to object that he wasn't in the mood, but then, looking at the old man over there obviously enjoying interacting with his older granddaughter, he changed his mind. His hands leaped at the keyboard, starting Flight of the Bumblebee. Rachel was on the other side of the bench long before he finished, and there was no doubt that Thomas was interested in his contribution to the evening now. He shifted from that piece into a medley of assorted rock, jazz, and classical, the common theme between all of his changing selections tonight being difficulty. He was purely showing off, Cuddy thought with an understanding smile. She drifted from the kitchen to the living room, both enjoying the concert and monitoring the meal in progress. By the time the food was ready, even Belle had reappeared, music easily winning over feline pique, and was stretched on the arm of the couch closest to the baby grand, her ears pricked alertly, her soft purr inaudible in the larger sounds that filled the room.

Cuddy hated to break the moment; she could tell that Thomas was loving this. House was more free in giving of himself at the keyboard than he ever was anywhere else. But finally, she had no choice. "It's all ready. Let's come eat."

House gave a final run, ending with a flourish. Rachel clapped her hands. "Yay!"

He looked over to find his father smiling at him. He had expected him to look impressed, but the further layers to it, the open pride, suddenly threw him off balance again. Too much there to try to analyze quickly. "I'll be there in a minute." He stood a little stiffly and headed for the back room to apply a heat patch to his leg and gain a few moments of breathing space.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: Sorry, no chapter, but just checking in, since a few people have asked. I'm okay, but the last week has been hectic with things popping up with work, RL, and Mom. I was hoping to grab time to write down a short chapter today, but it's not looking promising so far. Wednesday, normally one of the lightest days of the week, will be a total loss, so we're probably looking at Thursday soonest. I've had an extended meeting with staff at the facility about Mom dropped into Wednesday, and that might or might not be a tough one, as we will dig in depth into how strategy and new methods and referrals are working so far dealing with some major new and complex delusions that came up a couple of months ago and which we have been trying to cope with variously since. I'm considering taking my therapy cat along (a real cat, the most phlegmatic of my pride; I got her approved to visit after placing Mom, and she sees Mom occasionally when I can handle logistics with the near 200-mile round trip). That would give me a cat to pet myself on the drive back if needed, or even if not, and I can throw in a feline visit with Mom, too, after the meeting. But that kills Wednesday for any chance of writing.

On the upside, purely unintentionally, it looks like you will probably get a chapter on Father's Day. :) With all going on Wednesday, I'm going to count that visit for the week and drop Mom off the Sunday run, which adds about six hours into that day that I normally wouldn't have. Not that I'd planned it, but since the opportunity will be there, I do love symmetry. If I can get one more chapter up before then, the one will finish out the evening at the House house, and the chapter after will start the morning of the day that Thomas and House spend together. It would be neat to start the fictional unofficial "Father's Day" on Father's Day itself, like managing by luck more than design to get New Year's to coincide day with chapter back in H&F.

Hang in there, and we'll have more when I can, the weekend if not before.


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: This chapter finishes off Friday night, fic time. The next chapter starting Saturday will hopefully be posted on Father's Day, and Saturday is the meat of this story as it follows House and Thomas' day together (with a side of Cuddy and also Wilson). Thanks for the well wishes.

(H/C)

The meal was _odd._

House normally tried to avoid thinking of John at mealtimes, as the memories only made eating harder. He wasn't exactly thinking of John now, but the atmosphere of this group around the table was so foreign, the contrast so striking that he kept trying to analyze it, and his progress through his plate was by far the slowest among them. He had eaten with the old man before a few times back in the hotel, of course, but that had been in the dining room or just around the couch and chairs in the hotel suite plus the once at Blythe's house. Never before had they sat down together at the table in a private home as an alleged family.

The children were included. In fact, Rachel and Thomas between them carried most of the conversation. All through his childhood, the phrase had been drilled into him that children should be seen and not heard. For his mother, it was just a matter of manners, but for John, any statement more than, "Please pass the salt, sir," with the _please_ and _sir _required, would draw one of those immediate private looks, the ones that reminded him of how easily special plans for later could be added to the evening's agenda. It was even worse with company. He could answer a direct question from a guest but was required to do it in the fewest words possible and avoid anything that might make anyone start thinking, and after his nominal answer, John quickly resumed control over the conversation. Even Blythe wasn't included as an equal partner, whether just with the family or with guests. In mealtime talk as well as other, less subtle ways, John had dominated.

Tonight was so different that he felt like they were speaking a foreign language, one he hadn't learned yet. This almost had the easy feel of a meal just with himself, Cuddy, and the girls. Even through Rachel was the most vocal, Abby was pulled in enough that she added occasional comments, and Thomas never talked down to them or tried to put them into their place. Cuddy had started out worrying about the food; House could see her analyzing every bite Thomas took, looking for feedback. He provided it but not overdone, just reassuring her quietly and then turning the subject without making too much of a point of it, and she had rapidly relaxed herself.

Eating together like this around the table almost felt _comfortable._ And that made no sense, because Thornton was not only still a stranger but a father besides.

The old man was definitely focusing mostly on the girls this meal. Was that just because he sensed Cuddy's and House's own . . . because he sensed Cuddy's nervousness over the meal or because they were the true point of the visit for him? If he was nervous himself, he was doing a fantastic job of hiding it. On the other hand, House knew just how talented Thornton was at hiding things. He was deceptive by profession, after all. Cuddy still didn't know about his vandalism at the cemetery, even though House had told her by now about his own visit with Jensen and the ultimate fate of the letters. She knew about Thornton's visit to the defense attorney, but she hadn't heard the recording of it.

". . . Greg?"

The ghosts of the past and the nebulous form of the future snapped together abruptly into the present, and House blinked and focused. "What?" he asked Cuddy.

"I just asked if you were ready for dessert." She'd called him four times, in fact, though she didn't say so.

He looked down at his plate. He was about two thirds finished, but it was getting cold. The food wasn't tasting off tonight; he was too busy dissecting the atmosphere to be recalling the specific ruined tastes with John. He was just thinking too hard to remember to eat. Everybody else seemed done already. "Yeah. Sure."

"Yay!" Rachel firmly voted for dessert.

Abby was studying him with those eyes. "You okay?" she asked.

House handed his plate to Cuddy as she started clearing the table. "I'm fine," he said quickly. "Let's get on to that dessert."

"The best part of any meal," Thomas said. "Especially when it's chocolate." He already knew that it was a chocolate pie, because that fact had been used to bribe Rachel into finishing her vegetables.

Cuddy rolled her eyes. "Don't go giving the girls ideas," she scolded. "The _best_ part of any meal for them is the healthy part."

"Which they did eat," Thomas countered. "No harm in them getting the reward for it now." She tried to stave off the smile until she was in the kitchen with her back turned, not wanting to weaken her point in front of the girls. He seemed so much a part of the family already.

"Do horses like chocolate?" Rachel asked eagerly.

"No, they don't," Thomas answered. Both tonight and back at the end of January, she had grilled him on various menu items, trying to expand her concept of a horse diet from just carrots.

Rachel shook her head at the incomprehensibility of this. "_Silly_ Ember."

"It does leave more chocolate for you," House pointed out.

Cuddy distributed plates of chocolate pie. "You don't need to try to test chocolate on your stuffed horse either, Rachel. Or on Belle."

"Ember likes carrots. Does my Ember like carrots?" Rachel asked impishly. She had already made efforts to donate some of her own carrots to Thomas for Ember's future enjoyment.

House and Thomas both grinned at Cuddy's eye roll, and a few seconds later, House recognized the shared moment and retreated again, watching.

(H/C)

Nobody made any effort to get the girls to go to bed that night, and it was far past bedtime before they finally conked out. The interim had been filled by a family movie, Abby and Rachel insisting on House reading a nighttime book aloud to them as usual (and both trying as they could to participate, sidelong glances proving that _they_ were showing off some for their visitor, too), and chit chat about everything from horses to whether they had snow where Thomas lived. A hopefully final winter snowfall a week ago in Princeton had melted off by now, and the weather had warmed up nicely, but Rachel remembered it and wanted to report her efforts to build a snow horse. She inquired what all snow activity Thomas had experience in, and House couldn't help being impressed at the variety of the answer. He remembered the old man saying that his own father, House's grandfather, had participated in snowball fights with the kids of the neighborhood. It turned out that Thomas had been in several of his own, and not merely when he was a kid.

Gradually, fighting it every step of the way, the girls wound down, and finally, they fell asleep, Rachel sprawled in House's lap, Abby at the end of the couch with Belle. The white cat normally disliked company, but she had stayed around the fringes tonight, watching the group interactions as if performing her own differential.

Cuddy looked at the sleeping girls. "We'd better get them to bed," she said. She stood up and picked up Rachel, doing it so smoothly that House hoped Thomas hadn't realized the point that House would have difficulty himself in getting to his feet with his older daughter on his lap. In fact, even Abby was hard to stand up with by now, and if she was indeed starting to catch up on the growth charts, the days there were also very limited. House heaved himself to his feet once freed and shot a challenging look at his father, daring him to comment on his lack of gracefulness, but Thomas wasn't even looking his direction. He was instead watching Belle, extending a hand to her, and she considered, then stood, stretched, yawned, and ambled nonchalantly over to rub her head against those enticing, twitching fingers.

House picked up Abby and followed his wife. When they came back into the living room a few minutes later, Thomas and Belle were nose to nose with the cat on the arm of the recliner surveying him at close range and with him giving her a stroke now and then without being obnoxiously familiar about it. So the old man was a cat person, though currently catless. Probably that had died, too, House thought. He sat down very close to Cuddy on the couch, and she touched his arm subtly, a reassuring, familiar moment before she let go. "She likes you, Thomas," Cuddy said. "She usually vanishes when we have company."

Thomas shook his head. "Jury's still out. That's one thing I've always admired about cats; they don't hesitate to express their opinions. She's curious, though."

House looked quickly back toward the girls' room. The jury was in long since there, at least with Rachel, and even with Abby, the deliberations were winding down. "How. . ." he started, then trailed off.

The other two looked at him expectantly. "How what, Greg?" Cuddy asked after a minute, her asking because he probably wouldn't have answered Thomas on the same question.

House shifted, and Belle turned the feline radar onto him. "You never had grandkids," he said finally. "Where did you learn to make kids like you?"

Thomas smiled at him, not seeming put off at all by the question. "No, I never had grandkids, not until your girls, at least. But I've always liked children. They're so refreshingly honest, kind of like cats in a way. You don't have to sort through as many layers to figure out what they're really saying. Most adults have lost that, unfortunately. I have had more exposure to kids than you probably think, though. Tim always had a lot of friends wherever we went, so it wasn't unusual to have an extra child or two around the house. Then, after we moved to St. Louis and got the horses, I've been around the stable for decades since. Horses are a magnet for kids, especially little girls. I meet a lot of them there."

"So you like kids better than adults?" House challenged.

Thomas took a moment to weigh that answer but not long enough to discredit it. "I wouldn't say better, but I do like kids. In a way, they're almost the people adults have forgotten how to be. People acquire so many layers out in the world, and they get so busy worrying about things that don't matter. But I like adults, too; they're just more challenging to get to know."

_Which would you rather spend time with?_ House thought, but he didn't ask. That was too close to the root question. Cuddy stepped in after a moment of silence.

"May I ask you something personal, Thomas?"

"Of course. We're all family," he replied. House saved that line to dissect later when he could do it justice; he was curious about Cuddy's question.

"Why didn't you ever have more kids after Tim?" she asked tentatively. "Did something happen medically?" Her tone was already sympathetic in advance, thinking of her own past issues. House listened closely, having wondered that himself. Obviously Thornton had no problems hitting a home run, having nailed Blythe in his sole turn at bat, and Emily had given birth to Tim after only a year of marriage, so she couldn't have been too challenged in that area, either. Why _weren't_ there other Thorntons swarming all around if he liked kids so much?

Thomas tightened up a little bit on the answer, but these were obviously old regrets that had been processed long since. "Emily hemorrhaged when Tim was born. They wound up having to do a hysterectomy, couldn't gain control of the blood loss any other way."

House felt the medical curiosity kicking in. "That was 1962, right? Was she in this country?"

"Yes. We were based in California at the time."

"It still happens even now sometimes, Greg," Cuddy reminded him.

"I _know_ that, Lisa," he replied impatiently. "But there are techniques and meds we have now that we didn't then. I just wondered, purely as an academic exercise, if it could have been different. Did she have any problems or symptoms before delivery?"

Thomas was smiling again. Greg came so alert when thinking of medicine, every inch of him involved in the pursuit. It reminded Thomas of his father with music. "It's all right, Lisa. No, she didn't have any warning signs. Everything seemed to be going fine. She was perfectly healthy otherwise all her life." Right up until the cancer.

The others heard the thought as his expression changed to far more recent regrets, and House actually got in a step ahead of Cuddy in refocusing the subject away from those years of Emily's final illness. "But you _wanted_ other kids?"

"Definitely. We talked about it during her pregnancy; her mental number was four, and mine was five." He smiled in memory. "She said I always had preferred odd numbers over even ones. We especially hoped there would be a daughter somewhere in the line. Both of us wanted a girl."

House came to attention. "So you were disappointed to be stuck with Tim instead?"

Thomas met his eyes steadily. "No. I could _never_ be disappointed in my son, Greg." He held the look, and it was House who broke eye contact and turned away, snapping his fingers to Belle. She jumped off the arm of Thomas' recliner and trotted over to join him, carefully and determinedly arranging herself on his leg. He tried to readjust her, but she had her stubborn look on, and there was no way to move her without being obvious to the others and just underlining the damned leg even more.

Thomas continued after a minute of silence. "In our dreams and thoughts of the future beforehand, we always saw a girl. We never loved Tim any less, though. The names were picked out in advance, one of each, and we put as much thought into his. Your children are a part of you, and you love them whether they match your anticipation or surpass it instead."

_As if those were the only two options,_ House thought. He was suddenly tired of talking. There would no doubt be enough conversation required tomorrow during the course of the day. He scrambled for any alternative pastime. Music was out; he'd wake up the girls really getting into it, and he didn't feel like calm, gentle, quiet selections tonight. "Do you play video games?" he asked.

"I'm decades out of practice. Tim and I used to play them a lot. He had some of the first Atari systems when those came out, but after he got into horses and the model trains, that just fell by the wayside." Thomas looked over at the TV screen. "I'm always willing to try something new, though."

House remembered his own introduction to the world of video games, which had been on a friend's Atari. "What ones do you remember that you and Tim played?"

"Space Invaders, of course. Asteroids, Donkey Kong. I loved Pitfall."

Pitfall. Asteroids. House remembered those fondly, at first just as something John would have disapproved of, a forbidden pleasure, then as the challenge of the game itself. He would have been playing those same games about the same time Thomas and Tim were. An odd thought. He pushed Belle aside and stiffly stood. "Those are dinosaurs; you're hopelessly out of date. We need to bring you into this century."

He beat the old man easily and repeatedly, of course, but by the time they quit an hour later, he still couldn't read a trace of disappointment at that fact in his father. Actually, Thornton seemed to enjoy the games thoroughly, even losing. He also _did_ learn quickly, amazingly quickly for 75. House finally shelved the differential for more data tomorrow, and they all went to bed.

(H/C)

Cuddy finished her final, compulsive check on the girls and came back into their bedroom. House and Belle were already in bed, the white cat once again unerringly over his thigh, a feline heating pad on low. Cuddy took off her robe and switched on the monitor.

"You put his suitcase in the second guest room," House commented. "History isn't going to repeat itself, Lisa. You're just being paranoid."

And he had already himself in the past days of preparation noted which guest room she picked, Cuddy thought. They hadn't retired the room in which Blythe died, but she knew that House would have worried about the coincidence with Thomas in there just as much as she would have. Not that he'd ever admit it. "You got me. I'm being totally illogical, emotional, and ridiculous about this. Humor me anyway." She slid into bed and moved over for a long, satisfying kiss, although she broke it off before he could start to regret inability to take it further. His leg was hurting too much tonight. "I want you to remember something tomorrow, Greg."

He tensed up even while pushing back. "Here it comes. The give him a chance lecture. I knew you wouldn't be able to resist delivering it at some point before we left."

She shook her head. "No lecture." She waited out defiance until she felt him relax and knew he believed her. "But this is important just the same. I'm proud of you."

As often as he heard it, he still treasured the words. "Even if it's a total disaster? It might be, you know."

"No matter what happens tomorrow. I'm proud of you." She didn't narrow down her reason any more, although he knew the specific answer she had in mind tonight as well as she did. Phrasing it would only challenge him to deny it. She switched out the light, and they snuggled up against each other. "And it won't be a disaster," she promised after several minutes.

"You can't know that," he objected drowsily.

"Yes, I can. It's going to be okay."

"Save the Pollyanna crap for the movies. This is reality, Lisa," he grumbled, but secretly, he was reassured.

(H/C)

Thomas lay in bed in the dark, soaking up the feeling of this house. It was occupied, full to the brim of family, and it knew it. Even in the silence of nighttime, the feel of the surrounding walls was completely different. So long since he had slept in a house that felt like that; his former house (he already was thinking of it as his former house) was full of memories only, no longer of the life it once had held. He gave a sigh of satisfaction. "Good night, Emily," he said. It took a long time for him to manage to get his mind offline tonight; there was too much excitement. He wondered if tomorrow would match his anticipation or surpass it instead, and he finally fell asleep hoping for the latter.


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: Happy Father's Day. :) Thanks for the reviews.

(H/C)

Cuddy woke up five minutes before the alarm on Saturday and lay there for a minute thinking. Parallel itineraries lined up in her mind, not only the very organized plans for herself and the girls but also those for House and Thomas, wondering how it all would go, what they would talk about along the way, if House would let himself enjoy his father's company while irresistibly analyzing. Hopefully by the end of today, a little more of that decades-old wall would have come down.

For the girls, they would go to the park in the morning, weather permitting, and it looked like it would from the forecast, and then to their favorite stores in the mall. Rachel adored Build-a-Bear, and Abby liked it, too, although for Abby, it was more of an interesting process, while with Rachel, the result was the key. Abby was also fascinated by the piano shop, all the instruments there waiting for their new homes, and Rachel always enjoyed telling everyone in the store that her daddy could play all of these and do it better than any of them could. Lunch out together would fit somewhere into the stores. Then, after a break and naps in the afternoon, they would go to an actual theater movie late matinee at 4:30; there was a new animated one playing right now that looked toddler-appropriate. They should be back shortly before the men were.

A bird sang outside, sending forth one questioning trill at first as if testing the coming day, then settling into more steady song a moment later. She was glad the weather would be decent today for House's sake. He would have enough tension just from the situation without adding his leg's opinion of winter. Hopefully, the winter was just about over. Today was about the new beginnings of spring.

She turned on the bedside lamp and sat up. Her husband was still deeply asleep, and she ran a hand lovingly over his hair, lingering for a moment at the developing bald spot, which he would have protested had he been awake. Jensen had the dose on the sleeping pills cut way down again to just a gentle nudge off into rest, but House obviously had taken more than that last night. She was glad, though she hadn't wanted to suggest it outright herself and draw a stubborn denial of the emotional impact of this day. He needed the rest so he could enter today on a full tank physically. She was _so_ proud of him for this idea. Of course, she knew it tied into a mental differential, and he no doubt had a painfully detailed scorecard ready and waiting to be filled out as he graded Thomas' every reaction through the day. Still, it was a test that he never would have thought of a few years ago, one with him right in the middle of it, uncomfortably in the middle of it, rather than on the sidelines observing the results.

He wanted this relationship so badly. He just couldn't quite yet believe it was possible. She marveled again at Thomas' patience, although the new light in his eyes was poignant, too. Thomas knew that he was already in, knew that he couldn't be dismissed from his new family at this point, and the pure anticipation and release, the new life in him were apparent. Still, he let House move as slowly as he needed to.

Today would be huge for the two of them. Belle interrupted her reverie at that point with a jaw-splitting yawn, followed by a pointed stare that was a clear feline mandate to either get up or to turn out the light and go back to sleep with the rest of them. Cuddy laughed. "Okay, I'm getting up," she replied aloud. She leaned over to kiss her husband, then stood. A few minutes later, now in workout clothes, she turned off the light and exited the bedroom, leaving her husband and the cat to sleep out the remainder of their night.

The girls were still asleep. They had needed attention only once during the night, at 2:30, and she had spent a good five minutes after that standing outside the door of the guest room with all senses alert. Nothing but silence could be heard. Of course, sound sleep through a door was just as silent as death. Finally, calling herself illogical and emotional and even using House's mental tone for it, she had turned away and gone back to bed. Coming down the hall now, she paused and listened again, wishing for at least a bed springs creak. Nothing. She firmly made herself walk on after a moment.

The yoga helped settle her, refocusing her thoughts, and it was the future, not the past, that was primarily on her mind as she watched the coffee pot after her workout. The coffee had just finished making when she heard the door in the hall open, and the final specter of the past and Blythe's Christmas visit vanished. Thomas entered the kitchen a few minutes later. "Good morning, Lisa."

"Good morning, Thomas. Do you want coffee?"

"Yes, please. Nothing in it." He sat down at the table, and she paused to smile as she turned with a full cup in each hand to face him. She had only registered his living presence a minute ago, but now, the details sprang to her notice. His hair was still ruffled from sleep and made him look irresistibly like his son, even if in silver instead of graying chestnut. His eyes were sharp and bright, though. Obviously, he was much more of a morning person than House was.

He tilted his head slightly, underlining the resemblance. "What?"

She remembered her task and came on to deliver the coffee. "Just thinking. It's good to have you here."

"It's good to be here. That's not a strong enough word, though." He took a sip from his steaming cup.

Cuddy sat down around the corner of the table from him, closer than clear across it but still letting them see each other without twisting too much. "Did you sleep well?"

"Once I managed to get to sleep, although that took a while. I was too excited about today to shut my mind off."

She smiled again at the eager light in his whole being. "You _do_ realize that today is some sort of test he's thought up, don't you?"

"Of course it's a test. What _he_ doesn't realize is that I don't care why he asked. Lisa, I'm going to spend today with my _son._ I've never in his life had even fifteen minutes alone with him, certainly never been able to do anything normal together even as a friend, much less as a father, and now, I get a full day. I will _gladly_ spend a day with him under any circumstances at all, doing anything, no matter what his motives are, and enjoy it."

"I wish he could hear you say that."

He shook his head. "He doesn't need to hear me say it; that's too much right now. He needs to come to some conclusions for himself first. But yes, I do realize that I'll be scored on today." He gave an impish grin that again underlined the resemblance. "I always enjoyed surprising the teacher on tests, giving answers they didn't expect but ones that they couldn't score as wrong." He took another sip of his coffee, then turned the subject. "May I ask _you_ a personal question?"

Cuddy tensed up a little. He didn't say outright that turnabout was fair play, but the awareness of it was in his tone. There was also unspoken acknowledgement that he would let her off the hook if she insisted - and that was a difference from his son. "What do you want to know?" she asked.

Not a yes or a no, he thought. Apparently, it depended on the question. "Greg said once that you had known each other for many years. Why did you take so long to get together?"

The old regret of all those lost years surged up again. So much time they had wasted. "We were both being stubborn idiots," she replied. He chuckled, and she relaxed into his company and the moment and went on. "His reasons are his to tell you when he gets to trust you enough." Thomas could probably work out many of his son's reasons anyway. Hers weren't as obvious to an onlooker. "For me, I always had this mental picture of what I needed in a relationship, and believe me, he wasn't that picture. But I kept trying to pursue that instead of listening to my heart for a lot of years. I'm _so_ glad now that I didn't actually find that other version." She had found a few close facsimiles to it, but the chasm between those men and what she truly wanted had been too obvious to ignore completely, although too painful to admit, so she had focused on other minor faults as excuses for backing away.

"I take it that other version would have been safe, steady, and totally boring?"

She laughed. "Got it in one. He was right there, and I knew it, but for the longest time, I was just in denial." Suddenly, as if a spotlight had switched on, she realized with painful clarity that it hadn't been _her_ mental picture of a partner she had pursued all those years but that of her parents. Renewed anger at herself and at them for all that lost time hit her like a wave. "_Damn_ it."

"Lisa?"

She focused and looked back over at Thomas, seeing the true concern in his eyes. "It's all right. I just realized something I never had quite seen before." She would have to talk about that with Patterson.

He didn't push, allowing her the distance that time. Instead, he reached into a pocket. "I brought you a gift." He read her automatic thought. "It doesn't _matter_ whether you have anything for me. This whole visit is a priceless gift. But I wanted you to have this." He pulled out a necklace and handed it over.

She took it slowly, turning it to catch the light. No piece of cheap costume jewelry here. The stone was an emerald, and the setting was intricate without being overdone. It was also obviously decades old. This was an heirloom if she had ever seen one, and its value even monetarily alone would not be insignificant. "It's beautiful, but . . ."

He cut her off. "This belonged to my mother. It was a wedding gift to her from her parents. She always said she wanted Ellie to have it and give it to her daughter eventually, so Ellie took it when Mom and Dad died. But she never had children. Ellie gave it to Tim's wife, but they never had children, either." The old losses loomed again, and while his expression paid tribute to them, he steadily climbed over the griefs of the past, holding to his point. "After their funeral, cleaning out their place, I took it back, even though I thought we were a dead end, and Emily wore it for several years. Mom always had wanted it to stay in the family. Someday, it needs to go to Rachel or Abby, but for now, I want you to have it. Please."

She blinked back tears. He stood and walked around the corner of the table, and she let him take the necklace from her hands and fasten it around her neck. She picked up the pendant to look at it again. "Thank you, Thomas." She looked at her wedding ring, the one from House's grandmother, and a sense of belonging and heritage suddenly overwhelmed her. "Thank you."

He smiled at her and sat back down. The conversation moved on into less emotional points from there, him deliberately giving her some breathing space, but the rhythm of it was easy, two people exploring and enjoying each other's company and interests, underlining similarities, interested in differences. All too soon, it seemed, the girls woke up, and she was surprised to realize that the two of them had been talking for well over an hour. Touching the necklace a few times along the journey, Cuddy hurried back to the nursery to get her daughters up to enjoy some time with their grandfather.


	7. Chapter 7

"Have fun, boys!"

The door between the house and the garage closed behind them, and House felt the knot in his stomach tighten a little more at Cuddy's parting words. _Fun. That isn't the point of today,_ he corrected mentally.

Thomas chose to focus on another word. "Boys," he repeated. "We have well over a century between us."

"A lot more of it with _you_," House fired back automatically, although he couldn't help noticing that Thornton had been easily the faster down the steps.

"Of course," the old man replied, annoyingly either not noticing the edge on his tone or simply ignoring it.

House took a deep breath and wished he didn't feel so abandoned by the closing of that door, shutting off Cuddy, leaving him on the playing field alone. _Could_ he actually do this? He limped toward his car, then stopped, realizing that Thomas had paused. He was looking over the motorcycle parked at the front of the garage, although his hands were in his pockets, carefully not touching.

"_Nice_," he said. "I noticed it last night, but I didn't have time to really admire it then with Rachel bouncing out."

"Yes, I actually ride a motorcycle." House well remembered John's pointed remark about it being in the handicapped slot. The seal of disability was right there for the world to see, matching the one on the plates on his car. Cuddy - and he himself, of course - even always carried a temporary tag to hang on the mirror of her car or other vehicles when needed. Actually, he _didn't_ ride the bike as much as he used to, and winter use days were few and far between, only when weather and temperature allowed. He felt an absurd urge suddenly to take the motorcycle today instead of his car, just to prove to the old man that he _could_ ride it, but being in that close proximity for all those miles might well get to him, and his leg was already a little worse than baseline this morning. Which no doubt was due to the fact that it was barely March. That was all. The flowing river of air would still have a bite to it, especially at highway speed.

Thomas turned and smiled at him. "I knew it was yours. I _really_ can't picture this as Lisa's baby."

House choked back a laugh, the stiff moment relaxing a little. "No, she's not its biggest fan."

"And even if she did want one, this is _definitely_ not her color." Thomas resumed his trek toward the car. "Speaking of Rachel bouncing out, we'd better get going before the girls revolt and she pops out like Tigger again and demands to go with us."

House had wondered whether that was the whole point of stopping at the bike, to delay long enough to insert the girls and Cuddy back in their day and escape the hours with just his son. Rachel had spent breakfast trying to work out a deal to go with them, and it had taken all of Cuddy's skill plus Thomas promising a day with everyone together tomorrow to get resigned cooperation. Fortunately, nobody had told Rachel exactly what they planned to be doing today. The adults all knew better than to bring that up.

He limped on around to the driver's seat, and the car backed out. "Now that's _real_ horsepower," he challenged, giving a final nod toward the motorcycle as the garage door started to close.

"Mechanically speaking, yes. I _have_ ridden one, Greg."

"But you'd rather ride a horse instead. One horse under you versus a few hundred. That equation ought to be simple, but you got it wrong somehow."

"If it were purely about power, I'd agree with you. Motorcycles can be exhilarating, but horses aren't just about power. It's partnering with another living being. You can _feel_ the muscles at work, Greg. You can feel each breath, each stride, in a body far stronger than yours. It's sort of like running magnified to a power of ten."

House considered that, suddenly caught up in wistful memory of running, running uncrippled, back years ago. The smooth functioning of his body on demand, the thrill of it answering the call, the pure delight of physical effort. No, the motorcycle did not replace that.

Thomas went on. "There's also the cooperation, the friendship, the camaraderie. They are thinking beings, even with a will of their own sometimes. That's part of the attraction. Think of a team sport, where you are working together with your teammates toward a common goal. The bond you get to share with them during the game. But with a horse, you're working together even more closely than that, literally in direct contact. Really, I've often thought watching the winter Olympics that the best illustration would be ice skating, only with living skates that moved and breathed underneath you. Doing something that physical _together_ is special. Did you ever hear of Dick Francis?"

The name rang a vague bell. "He's an author, right?" He thought he had seen it in bookstores.

"Yes. Bestselling mystery author. He used to be a steeplechase jockey, even rode for the Queen before he retired and turned to writing. One of my favorite quotes from him is about horses. His character in a book once thought about riding, _There was nothing comparable to this. Better, perhaps, but comparable, no._ That's what it's like. If you'll hit this drive-in up ahead, we'll pick up milkshakes for the road." It hadn't been lost on Thomas that his son had had trouble finishing breakfast, no doubt through pure tension.

House put on the blinker. "Today is on _your_ dime, remember."

"I hadn't forgotten. I have a good friend named Visa."

"So what's the budget limit?" House asked, curious. Where was the line at which it became not worth it?

Thomas smiled again. "I'm not keeping track, Greg. Whatever we need today."

House lowered the window and ordered two chocolate shakes, flinching as the squawk box replied. Surely there _had_ to be some way to improve the sound quality on those things. "What about a BMW?" he asked as they moved forward. Thomas fished out a bill and handed it to him.

"We wouldn't have time today, but for the future, if you really want one, Greg, okay. Just not mine."

House looked at him, stunned, not even noticing the worker reaching out the window for the money. "You wouldn't," he insisted. Besides, two retirements plus Social Security or not, that really _would_ put a dent in the old man's budget that could be felt. Cuddy would never forgive him for pushing that test, even if it would fail.

"You want to set a date for it? I can come back next weekend. What about Saturday?" Unbelievably, Thornton wasn't backing down yet. The man was crazy. No son was worth that kind of change, especially himself.

House finally heard the polite throat clearings next to him and handed over the money. He passed over the change and one of the eventual shakes to the passenger's seat, but when conversation resumed, he dodged, as usual when feeling emotionally trapped. "One thing wrong with your Olympic metaphor. You're 75, and you're still playing horse. The athletes are young. You can't compare trail riding to a real physical sport."

Thomas straightened up with a silent _gotcha._ "Actually, riders in their 20s are considered young. A lot of Olympics have equestrians competing in their 40s, 50s, even a few in their 60s. Mileage is appreciated. I'll freely admit, though, that trail riding isn't that vigorous, but it's still special. She's a friend, besides, and she's one who listens but will never tell a secret. I'm not planning to quit any time soon. I'm especially looking forward to my century ride."

House took a long, noisy chocolate slurp. "Your _century_ ride? Now that's nuts. You really think you'll be out there when you're 100?"

"A century ride is when the horse and rider combined equal 100. Lots of people have had one."

He couldn't resist starting the mental calculator. "You're 75. How old is Ember?"

"She's 12. She'll be 13 in May, and I'll be 76 in October." Thomas paused, letting his son run the equation.

"So she'll be 19 and you'll be 81." House shook his head. "I still think it's crazy. And even if the bike doesn't have muscles you can feel working with you, it also doesn't crap. That's a _big _advantage." Thomas chuckled. "What other sports have you done?"

"In high school, I was in track and basketball. Not that I was that good in basketball. I had the height but not the coordination. It took me until late teens to really get my body thoroughly together and working smoothly, Greg. I was a great free throw shooter but not as good on fast-paced plays. Even in running, which I loved, it would take me a while to get untangled. Sprints never quite worked, but somewhere before 400, it shifted into gear. Anything past that to a mile, I loved."

House turned onto the highway toward Philadelphia. "Ever play lacrosse?"

"No. Blythe sent me the video of you playing, though."

He flinched. "And you _still_ thought I had been just a clumsy walking accident growing up?" _She thought it, too_, Jensen's voice chimed in in his head.

"Yes." There was a world of regret in Thomas' tone, but there was no effort at a defense, no reminder of all those letters that had hammered that thought into him. He simply left it at the one word.

House drummed his fingers on the wheel for a moment. The silence pressed in, and he scrambled for another subject. He wasn't ready to dig into his own past with his father, not yet. "That necklace," he said, his tone sharpening up. "Where did that come from?" There had been no chance for private conversation about it with Cuddy by the time he was last up, but he couldn't have missed noticing it, and the source was obvious.

"It belonged to my mother." Thomas left the rest of the back story alone at this point.

"You don't _need_ to bribe my wife. She's already on your side, in case you haven't noticed."

"It wasn't a bribe, Greg. It was simply a gift."

"One that you've just been _waiting _to give her. I'll bet you were looking forward to that as a reason for this trip. Sitting around anticipating it."

"It was _a _reason, yes, but it definitely wasn't the main one. _Today_ is the highlight of the trip for me, Greg."

_You can't know that,_ House thought. _Not yet. Not likely later, either._ The old man's next words ripped him back out of his thoughts into the present. "Besides, I never said that she was the only one I brought something special for."

House looked over at him suspiciously. "You brought _me_ a gift, too?"

"Yes. There might even be more than one."

"What is it?"

Thomas shrugged. "Since I haven't given it to you yet, let's see if you can guess."

Now _that_ wasn't fair. House studied him. "Something as old as that necklace is?" Surely he wouldn't waste an heirloom on him. House knew that he didn't have many salvaged from his initial happy childhood.

"Yes."

"But little. It had to fit in your suitcase or on you." _Damn it_. His mind seized the puzzle irresistibly. "You said there was more than one. Are they all old?"

"Technically, I said there _might_ be more than one."

"_If _there was more than one, are all of them old?"

"Maybe."

House smacked the wheel in frustration. "Listen, old man, you'd better not just be playing around and planning nothing." Or planning things that would _make_ House wish for nothing. Abruptly, he remembered John, taunting him with the prospect of a gift, all the while both of them knowing that the _gift_ would be nothing of the kind. He shivered.

"Greg?" He focused. Damn it. "Greg, I _will_ give it to you. I promise."

He tried to shake off the ghosts and recapture the game. "Have I seen it? At least one of the potentially them?"

"Yes." That was definite enough. He looked Thornton over, trying to spot anything heirloomish. Nothing jumped out.

"You said you didn't get much out of your parents' house."

"No, I didn't. Tim and Ellie did what they could quickly, but even that was limited. I wasted most of my chance out in the back yard kicking a tree."

"That seems to be a running theme with you. Amazing you haven't broken your foot by now. Or have you?"

"No, I usually had enough sense to pull my punches a little, even mad. John's stone was the closest I've come to it."

House blinked. Thornton was more mad at John than he had been at losing his whole childhood? That didn't make sense. "You said once you had an old service injury. What was that?"

"Dislocated left shoulder and torn rotator cuff and head of the biceps tendon. They fixed it surgically. The joint still aches a little sometimes, especially with weather, but that's minor." The old man left it at that, but there was in him a hint of tautness now, as if the circumstances of _how_ he had hurt his shoulder weren't the most pleasant memories for him. House could have asked directly, and he knew he probably would have gotten an answer, but he decided not to push for the moment. Today was going to push things enough anyway. He scrambled for a subject shift.

"What all did Tim play? The other Tim, I mean," he added, since the last Tim mentioned had been the brother, not the son. "Damn it, you really needed to pick another letter."

Thomas scored the point with a nod but then led conversation into the subject of his other son. Tim had been one of the most frequent topics between them over the months of tentative communication, probably second only to the original Timothy Thornton, the pianist, but his older son never tired of hearing family history.

House was surprised when signs announced that they were starting to approach the big city; he hadn't realized they were that close already. Not that they were going all the way into it. He turned off, following Mapquest mentally now on the route he had memorized, and Thornton, of course, had several genuinely interesting tales to provide about getting lost with inadequate directions in odd corners of the world over the years. Emily apparently had even considered getting lost something to be enjoyed, an opportunity. Surprisingly soon, they reached their destination, and House turned into the entrance as the large complex loomed up before them, the grandstand, the adjacent casino, and the featured event of today, the racetrack.


	8. Chapter 8

A/N: I have never actually been to Philadelphia Park (it changed names a year or two ago, but I had known of it by that one too long to start thinking of it otherwise now). I have been to other tracks personally, a few with casinos alongside, and I did call in to this one for some general layout questions. Still, if errors have slipped through, my apologies. Favorite personal racetrack visit was a gift from my grandfather in 1987, although he didn't feel up to going himself, so Mom was my company on that trip. Churchill Downs, Kentucky Derby day. Alysheba!

Enjoy our duo's continuing day together, and thanks for all the reviews.

(H/C)

When his son had first proposed this day and the agenda for it a week and a half ago, Thomas had recognized immediately that it was a test. In fact, it was not only a test but the first question on it in advance.

Thomas had been delighted at the idea of a day together, test or not. As he had told Lisa this morning, he truly didn't care about the alleged motive. The very fact that Greg was asking was proof of progress. But that email suggesting it put him between a rock and a hard place. Having been to a racetrack a couple of dozen times over the years with Emily, he knew how massive they were. Anybody's legs could get a workout from a day spent there. He wasn't sure if his son had ever been to the horse races, but he knew from their limited talks that he had been to NASCAR a few times, and that wasn't any better. No, Greg was deliberately proposing something that he knew would be difficult for him, just to see if the "old man" (Thomas secretly loved that title) would remind him that he couldn't do it. Which, of course, would put Thomas' score on this test already into triple negative digits straight out of the starting gate.

He was stuck. Saying anything would be wrong, even if he tried suggesting something else without mentioning Greg's leg. Saying nothing, though, would lead to a strenuous, maybe too strenuous, day, and Greg would probably pick up on his unspoken worry by the end anyway and misread it as judgment. Thomas had sat through the whole Chandler trial, including the extensive evidence of the medical expert who had interpreted the records and full body scan on Greg. Then had come the lengthy challenge on cross-examination about his son's leg, that defense snake trying to downplay the disability and make Greg out to be just a drug seeker. The witness had been unshakeable, but by the end, Thomas knew exactly how bad it was. Everybody in the courtroom that day knew how bad it was.

He also had seen for himself that night in the park what a spasm brought on by overexertion could do. That night, Lisa had been there, and Greg had accepted help from her. Thomas had kept looking back all the way across the park to the concession stand while on his milkshake errand. Today, Lisa wouldn't be here. Just the two of them. All he could do was hope that if it came to the point where he _had_ to act, Greg would let him. But he definitely couldn't object up front. Damn John. He'd obviously never lost a chance to deride Greg for his disability.

Of course, Thomas had done what he could quietly and privately. He hadn't discussed it with Lisa, figuring that Greg might well quiz her on that topic, but he did call the track in Philadelphia. The woman on the phone had been politely efficient and had helped him pick out the best logistical area of the enclosed grandstand, out of the weather and with concessions, restrooms, and betting windows as convenient as possible to their reserved seats. Their day would be as streamlined as he could make it.

There was still another meaning behind the choice of activity, and that one had taken a few days to sink in with Thomas busy fretting over the physical details while anticipating the trip. Oddly, it had come in a dream, one of the delightful ones where he got a chance to talk to Emily. He often imagined what her advice would be, but he loved hearing it from her own lips, even if they only met in dreams anymore.

_They were sitting at an outdoor cafe, as they so often had in real life on their road trips. Their table was the only one at this dream restaurant, offering a cocoon of privacy. She had scooted her chair as close as possible and was holding his hand, warm pressure that spoke to him in the language that needed no words. "He picked the racetrack, Thomas," she said. _

_"I know," he replied impatiently. "That's what I've been telling you. I'm damned if I speak up and damned if I don't here. Why does he always have to make things so hard on himself? I could understand if he just wanted to make them hard on me, but he's walking into this eyes wide open. The best day we could have is still going to hurt him." _

_"So why not something else if he just wants a disability challenge for both of you? There are dozens of other things he could have suggested that would serve the same purpose. He's not _only_ trying to prove he can take it." _

_The hamster wheel of frustration paused. "That's right, there are other choices." He'd only been considering easier options, not other difficult ones. _

_"He picked horses. That was for you, Thomas. Yes, he's testing you, and he's testing himself, but part of him also at the same time wants to do something you'll enjoy. He wants it to be a good day for you." _

_"Just _being_ with him would be a good day for me. I wouldn't care where we spent it." _

_"I know, but he doesn't. Not yet. But enjoy the day, Thomas. Him, of course, but enjoy the racing, too. He's trying to please you, even if he'd never say so. Give him that feedback." _

_He smiled at her. "A whole day. We are making progress." _

_"Yes. I'm so glad for you, Thomas. And remember. . ." _

At that point, the alarm clock had gone off, one of the mornings that he felt like kicking _it_. Couldn't he have been allowed five more minutes? But her words stayed with him as the days counted down. _He's trying to please you._ Yes, that also was there, hidden beneath the test. Not that it would make the scoring any easier, of course.

After they parked in the handicapped slots, Thomas got out of the car, and while carefully _not_ watching Greg extricate himself, he stood and looked toward the grandstand, not hiding the smile of anticipation. "I'm really looking forward to this," he said. He didn't limit it to the track, but he heard Greg's stride pause just slightly at the words, and it was minutely smoother as it resumed. Thomas reached into his pocket and brushed the gift lightly with his fingers. He wasn't sure when the moment would come today, but at some point, it would, and he was ready. He thought of the racetrack, groomed and harrowed to smooth perfection just now, ready for the contest. The day, the races, his son, and the future stretched out ahead, also waiting for footprints. He really _was_ looking forward to this.

"So why are you wasting time standing there then?" Greg griped. Thomas pulled himself back from thought, and together, they slowly walked to the doors.

(H/C)

House eyed the large adjacent casino in the complex and then looked at his watch. They had time for a side stop first, just as he'd planned, and this chance was irresistible. "You play poker?"

The old man turned that direction willingly. "Of course. I think _anybody_ who was in the military has played poker at least a few times. I'm out of practice, but I'll gladly lose some money proving it to you."

There was that puzzling hint at lack of budget again. House fought back the urge to go all in, to set the stakes at something truly insane just to see his father back down at the prospect of losing it. He couldn't do that, though. Cuddy would be furious. Lecture or not, and he was impressed at her restraint, he still knew that she wanted him to give the old man a break. Ridiculous challenges today would upset her when she found out, and keeping her happy paid dividends. Besides, ridiculous challenges wouldn't be required. Long before the end of today, Thornton would be tired of his company. At least he would have the horses for some compensation.

The walk to the casino was a longish one, and House felt his father's eyes, but at least there were no words. He couldn't resist a scathing glare as they reached their destination, but Thomas annoyingly wasn't even looking his direction to receive it. The casino was crowded, impressing itself in pulsing neon onto every sense. This place was huge. There had to be thousands of slots alone, and tables for the other games weren't in short supply, either.

Thomas paused at the first bank of slot machines. "Want to try your luck?"

House scoffed. "I already _know _what my luck's like, and you should have learned that a long time ago yourself."

Thomas shrugged. "Maybe it's changing."

"Or maybe they're rigged. I like a game with _strategy_ in it. At least you have a fighting chance that way." He stared at the old man. "You don't honestly _believe _in luck, do you?"

"You just implied that you did yourself," Thomas challenged. "If you think you have bad luck, then you _do_ believe in luck." He pulled out a ten. "$5 each, just for fun, and you're not losing anything. It's my money."

House rolled his eyes. "How can anybody with your endless stream of funerals still believe in good luck?"

"It wasn't _all_ bad, Greg. Yes, life's hell a lot of times. I'll never deny that, but there are good moments, too. I had Emily, and meeting her was a night of bad luck turned good. I had wonderful parents as long as I had them; that's far better than never knowing it. And I had children I was always proud of." He turned a shoulder on the protest being framed at his use of the plural and deposited his money. The first time he pulled down the arm, the machine hit a winner for $100.

House stared. "I don't believe it." Could he have possibly set that up? But it was House who had suggested coming over here.

Thomas produced a fair Yoda-like voice in response. "That is why you fail."

"Bullshit. Okay, Master Jedi, if it's that easy, let's see you hit only winners from here on."

Thomas grinned at him and pulled the arm again. Of course, he lost from there on through his designated $5. Once he turned the remainder over to his son, House lost every try. "Just flushing money down the toilet," he grumbled.

"Not quite. You can have the hundred I won; that will stake you at poker. Or more if you want. Today's on my dime, remember?"

He turned toward the nearest table, and House was just framing a suitable reply when the old man suddenly paused, coming alert, his whole being tightening up. He looked like a bird dog on point just for a second, and then he caught himself and walked on, but his attention was now divided.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" House asked.

Thomas' reply was low. "Look out of the corner of your eyes, not straight at him. Third row of slots near the door. Medium height, brown hair, mustache, leather bomber jacket." House started to turn his head. "_Don't_ look straight at him," Thomas hissed. There was an urgency in his tone that somehow killed House's protest. He took a surreptitious glance over as they headed for the poker table.

"Okay, I see him. So what? Someone losing money, like most of the other idiots in here. Do you know him?"

"Not personally, no."

"Impersonally, then?"

"I've never seen him before, but . . . he reminds me of a _type_ I used to run into now and then."

House stopped, and Thomas realized it immediately and swung around to face him, both of them carefully not looking at Leather Jacket. "In the Marines?" House asked. Thomas nodded. "So now _you're _having flashbacks, old man?"

"No. I'm not back there, but he reminds me of there. Somebody with a separate agenda, not doing what he seems to be doing on the surface. Not the same as the rest of the crowd. Not innocent plans, either. He sets my radar off."

House's skeptical snark died unborn at the last phrase. Suddenly he remembered Patrick Chandler reaching across the table at the rehearsal for Jensen's wedding. Not a flashback, but Patrick had made the hair on the back of his neck stand up from the first moment, and ultimately he had been _right_. But that night, with nothing more than annoyingly illogical gut reaction to go on, when he had approached Jensen, the psychiatrist had believed him. Remembering that belief, somehow he couldn't ridicule his father on something similar. "Does that happen a lot?" he asked, a simple, quiet question.

"No, it doesn't. Only one other time since leaving the service."

"And who did that one turn out to be?"

"I don't know, Greg. I only saw him for a moment. By the time I worked over closer, he was gone. Whatever his plans were, they must have been private. Nothing happened then or later that I ever read about. But I was _sure_ somehow that he had plans he was thinking of. I spent too long in dark corners of the world without backup to ignore that instinct. It bailed me out too many times." Thomas glanced sideways again. "He's gone now." He stared at the doors where other people streamed in and out. Leather Jacket had vanished. He came to himself with a jerk. "I apologize, Greg. Let's go on and have our game of poker, and then we'll head to the track in an hour at most. We should still have time for a cholesterol burger before we pick out our bets for the first."

House felt almost caught between two worlds himself. Part of him wanted to protest that _he_ was supposed to be the object of undivided attention here, but another part was still remembering Patrick. "We'll keep an eye out for him, at least. Maybe he's going over to the track, too. We might see him again."

"Maybe." Thomas gave him a smile. "Come on, Greg. The last time I played poker, it was against Tim and his friends. I remember wishing that you could be there that night. Glad to finally fill in the gap." He headed on, choosing the nearest table, and House dropped gratefully into the seat. Damn it, the old man was so good at saying things like that and making them sound sincere.

He kept watching Thornton intently throughout the game, trying to interpret each nuance, determined to read his hand. Unfortunately, he focused so much on his father that he forgot to pay much attention to the other participants around the table. Long before their time limit was over, he had folded, and the $100 was gone, and he sat there watching Thomas, surprisingly good at the game if a bit rusty, fight it out clear to the end before losing. His victorious opponent gave him a nod in salute at the end. "Good game, old man."

House felt an absurd impulse to claim the title, to protest that some stranger didn't have the right to use it. He pushed back from the table. "Let's go." Thomas stood with enviable smoothness, and they headed for the exit. "So much for that damned slot machine. You're further in the hole now than when you came in."

Thomas smiled at him. "But it was a good game and good company. That's worth a lot." They reached the doors and walked back across into the track portion, and Thomas paused at the gift shop. "Let's stop in here for a minute, Greg. We need T-shirts, of course."

House snorted. "_T-shirts_?" As if Thornton would want a memento of today to keep looking at through the years?

"T-shirts." Thomas entered the shop. Five minutes later, laden with T-shirts, sweat shirts, and a model horse for Rachel that called itself Smarty Jones, they checked out, and while Thornton picked up the rest of the tab, House insisted on buying the horse. This one would be from _him_.


	9. Chapter 9

A/N: The story of the exacta strategy in 2002 is true. Unfortunately, it wasn't me. :) Thanks for the reviews, and enjoy this chapter.

(H/C)

The cholesterol burger was worthy of the title, juicy and dripping, and House was surprised to find himself truly hungry. They had hit the concessions line on the way into their seats, which were suspiciously well located. They did have to take the elevator up one level, but once up, they were on the first row of seats from the entry tunnel with only one step required to get there, and the concessions, betting, and restroom were all immediately behind them. They also had a nice view of the track. House eyed Thomas suspiciously as he took another bite. What were the odds of this happening by pure luck of the seat draw? Pretty low. At least the old man hadn't said anything directly.

Thomas shoved down a french fry and crunched with appreciation. "There is _nothing_ like good old junk food once in a while," he stated.

House relaxed a little. "Don't tell Lisa that."

"I'd already gotten that impression. I won't tell on us if you don't."

House took another bite of his burger. This _was_ good. He was almost due for meds, which was another sticky point, and he definitely didn't need to get off schedule today. His leg would hate him enough by tonight even without that. He debated pulling the bottles out in front of his father and decided to wait a few minutes instead and see if he was sticking around. He might conveniently wander off, even if briefly.

Thomas pulled out his program. He had bought them each one. "So," he said with genuine curiosity in his voice, as if he were looking forward to the answer. "Who do you like in the first?"

The reply came through a mouth full of fries. "It's a maiden race, so no past winners. Three are first-time starters. Looking at the workouts on those and the previous form on the ones who have raced. . ." House paused to take another bite of the burger. "I'll take #4. Raced twice, second and third. Bumped last time at the start. Stretching out another few furlongs, and he's been coming on at the end, so today's a good chance to actually get there."

The old man's expression surprised him. The smile had genuine appreciation and pride in it. "You've done your homework."

"Of _course_. I don't put my money down where I haven't done my homework," he insisted.

"Do you play the horses a lot, Greg?"

The fries were just about gone. He finished off the last one before answering. "I hit the OTB now and then."

A flicker of expression there. "But not live."

"OTB works just as well without the drive and the crowd." And the massive grandstands. "Let me guess, you're about to spout off some sentimental bullshit about the beauty of the game and how it's more than just cold numbers. Tell that to your wallet at the end of the day. Personally, I think a nice Ben Franklin is a thing of beauty itself."

Thomas smiled. "So you're a total logical selector. Past performances, jockey and trainer record, statistics."

House snorted. "Of course it's based on statistics. I do all right, too. What's your warm and fuzzy and not so impersonal system? Color? Name? Want to compare results?"

"No, name was _Emily's_ system." Thomas laughed, and just for a second, his face softened into memory. House had no doubt that he could see her and hear her again in his mind at that moment. "She always liked looking at horses but didn't get into the hands-on part like Tim and I did. When we would go to the track, she'd decide purely on names that she liked. And you know, Greg, it's amazing how well she did. Not as much as I won, but she was hardly tearing up all of her tickets. She had two races in particular over the years that were big hits, even though she never bet more than $10. Want to guess her profits from her best race?"

House tried plugging in $10 plus a ridiculous selection system. Still, dumb luck struck once in a while. He had seen that often with patients. "$1000," he guessed, assigning dumb luck a generous quota in his mind.

Thomas shook his head. "Higher."

"Picking by _name_? And only betting $10 tops?"

"The first day was the Kentucky Derby in 2002. We went in person that time, because I wanted to do it live at least once. Every other year, I've either watched it on TV or simulcast from another track, but that was our big year to do the full trip. In the Derby, she put down $10 on an exacta of War Emblem and Proud Citizen. Can you guess why?" He paused, leaving the challenge dangling.

House couldn't resist the bait. "2002, you said. That would have been the first one after the 9/11 terrorist attacks. She thought they were nice patriotic names?" Thomas nodded. "What a bunch of crap."

"Frankly, I thought she didn't have a chance. They were 21-1 and 24-1." Thomas ate his last fry. "The War Emblem-Proud Citizen exacta in 2002 paid over $1300 for a $2 bet. She won well over $6000 on that one race. Based on patriotic names."

"What did you bet on?" House asked, curious.

"Saarland. Finished 10th." Thomas didn't sound at all upset, perfectly willing to credit that day to patriotic names instead of a more rational system. "She bought dinner that night. We had a rule that whoever won more during the day when we went to the races would buy dinner that night. It was me more often, but she sprang for her share."

"So what _is _your system, old man?"

"I'm about a 70/30 mix. 70% statistics and form, like you use, and the other 30% is based on seeing the horses. I'll watch them getting saddled in the paddock, watch the post parade, and just get a reading on how they feel that day. Who looks in the zone, who looks too tense. I'll have my top picks in mind before that, but seeing them is the final decider."

"In other words, you can't make up your mind to stick with one system."

"It's not _all_ statistics, Greg. They are living beings. They can have especially good or bad days, just like any of us."

House was getting toward the end of his burger. He really needed to take his meds; they were supposed to go with food. He looked at the big board in the infield. 25 minutes to post time. He wasn't sure of the timing on the behind-the-scenes details, but he figured the horses would probably be saddled soon. Wherever the paddock was, it was _not_ part of the conveniently located amenities clustered behind these seats. "Don't think I'll go to the paddock for the first," he said. "You can head on and get your _feelings_ for them yourself."

"The post parade will work fine," Thomas replied smoothly. "I'd rather stay with you, Greg."

Damn it. House shifted slightly. He could feel the bottles in his pocket. He'd have to try to distract him. "So who do _you_ like in the first?"

Thomas looked back to his program, and House tried to fish the bottles out without moving too much. They rattled like marbles on a concrete floor. He was amazed that people three sections over didn't turn to look. "I like. . ." In that moment, Thomas, starting to point to something on his program, knocked his empty cardboard container off his lap. At least the fries and burger weren't still occupying it. "Damn it." He bent to pick it up, reached over for House's empty, and then stood smoothly, taking the one step into the aisle, and ambled toward the nearest trash can, which was about 10 feet away. House quickly got out his pills, the movements oiled by long practice, and had just finished gulping them down as Thomas turned. He quickly shoved the bottles back in his pocket.

Thomas sat down again and bent to pick up his drink beside his feet. He took a long slurp, then returned to perusal of the program. "_Tentatively,_ without seeing them yet, I'm interested in #5 and #8."

"#5 has finished 7th and 10th," House pointed out.

"But he's sired by an excellent miler. As you said a minute ago, this race is stretching out from where a lot of these have been running. He's been way too short at 5 furlongs. Actually, I'd like him even better at a mile and an 8th, but he should appreciate the extra ground today." He pulled out his wallet and carefully counted off five bills. "Here, Greg, since you like the look of Ben Franklins so much. What about a little head-to-head competition today? We each start with $500 to play with, and whoever is on top at the end wins."

House took the money. "Long as you know what you're getting into."

Thomas gave him one of those multilayered smiles that totally confused him trying to analyze all the strata. "I have no doubt what I'm getting into, Greg. Let the fun begin." He quickly looked back down at his program, not prolonging the eye contact, to House's relief. "I'm also going to go with $5 across the board on #10 just for old time's sake."

House looked up #10. "Emily K. Slow workouts, finished last in her only race to date. Old time's sake doesn't pay bills."

Thomas shrugged. "But it can be fun, even losing."

"Losing is _not_ fun," House countered. "That doesn't make sense. People who think that just haven't had enough winning to compare to it." Thomas was pleasantly unruffled. "What was Emily's other big profit day?" House wondered. "You said she had two. The patriotic exacta is one."

"Oh, you'll appreciate this one more, I think. That was also the Kentucky Derby, 2005. We didn't go in person, never went back to Churchill on Derby day after the first year. It's a great experience but just too crowded. In 2005, we went to Arlington in Chicago and watched the simulcast. The winner was Giacomo at 50-1. She bet $10 to win." He waited.

House ran the name Giacomo through every possible reason he could imagine. "She knew someone by that name?"

"No. Try again."

He sighed. "She liked the letter G? She saw it somehow at random in a news story that day or heard it in conversation and had a hunch?"

"Nope. Giacomo was owned by Jerry Moss."

_That _name House knew. "A and M Records."

"Exactly. He's recorded all sorts of stars. He owns racehorses for fun, and he likes to name his horses with musical connections. One of his artists and a good friend besides is Sting, and he named Giacomo after Sting's son. Tim absolutely loved Sting. So Emily bet $10 for old time's sake on the horse with the Sting connection, and she won."

House rolled his eyes. "Neat story, but how often did she lose?"

"Like I said, Greg, it wasn't as bad as you think. Horses have a delightfully illogical edge to them. They are _never_ entirely predictable, so the pure statistics system will never call everything. That's the fun of it."

At that moment, the bugle sounded, clear and piercing, calling the field to the post. Thomas scooted forward to the edge of his seat. "The post parade should be starting now, and then we'll place our bets."

Here they came, the Thoroughbreds prancing out onto the track. Thomas studied them intently, and House studied Thomas. The old man looked almost like his father the pianist in his focus at the moment. He _did_ know horses, after all. Maybe there was something to be said for eyeballing them. "Well?" House challenged.

"#4 looks a little on edge but pretty good." He started with his son's selection first. "#5 is starting to get the system down. He's looking around, taking it in. His third race, and this is all getting familiar to him now. It's so different in the afternoons for them than the morning, and that can throw a horse off. But he's interested, not spooked at all the people or the hoopla. Starting to think he might enjoy the people. #8 doesn't like his jockey's hands." Thomas glanced back down at his program. "First time this jockey has ridden him. Not everything is a match made in heaven. I'm dropping #8. They'll probably jump straight out, the horse fighting for his head, and burn out before the end." Emily K, #10, was last in the post parade, and Thomas looked her over carefully. "Emily K is nervous. Compare her to #5. She probably _was_ spooked by the crowd and the noise that first race where she finished last. She's still not sure of it. Look at her jockey touch her neck there. She's listening to him, too. They're on the same wavelength, unlike #8. He's trying to steady her a little and reassure her. The fillies especially can be a little more sensitive than the colts. Not all jockeys ride fillies well." The horses finished parading by. "I'll stick with #5, drop #8, and keep my across the board wager on #10." He smiled at his son, waiting.

House had to admit he was impressed. The cues Thomas was reading like a book weren't as obvious to him, but he _could_ catch glimpses when directed. He covered the moment with a drink from his cup, then put it back down and hauled himself to his feet. "I still say #4 is the logical choice. Let's go bet."

The lines weren't too long at their local windows, and they made it back to their seats well before the horses had finished their warmups. As they arrived, Thomas tossed his bag from the gift shop, which contained the two sweatshirts and two T-shirts, into House's seat. House froze just for a moment, waiting, glaring. Nothing was said. Thomas wasn't even looking his direction now, instead eagerly peering across the track at the horses warming up on the far turn. After a moment, House sat down on the bag. The cushioning _was_ a definite improvement over the hard plastic seat. He sat there silently, watching the old man, looking for any whisper of pity or judgment.

"The horses have reached the starting gate," the announcer stated. This being a 1-mile track and a 1-mile race, the start was almost directly in front of them with their seats near the finish line.

"Watch #8," Thomas said suddenly. House turned back to the track. #8, who had been having a disagreement with his jockey earlier, apparently didn't like him much better after warmup. He tossed his head, backing up a few steps as an assistant starter reached for his bridle and tried to urge him into the starting gate. "He's going to rear," Thomas predicted about 5 full seconds before he did so. The jockey clung on, suddenly looking even smaller. A few more assistants closed in as #8 came down, and two of them locked hands around the recalcitrant horse's rump and pushed him on into the gate. Thomas shook his head. "Bet the trainer would like to change riders now. You never know how a match-up will work until you try."

"Wouldn't he have ridden him in a workout before today?" House asked.

"Almost certainly not. The jockeys ride the afternoons. Once in a while, on a big horse or for a big race, they'll ride in the morning to get a feel, but on a maiden race in the first at Philadelphia? No. They ride 10 or so races a day, many of them, day in and day out. They can't give that much individual attention to each ride ahead of time. He would have looked up form hopefully and talked to the trainer in the paddock, but the jockey only met his mount 20 minutes ago." Emily K, the final horse, hesitated. Her jockey was touching her neck again, and House saw the ears flick back. The rider was apparently talking to her. The assistants closed in but waited a moment this time before pushing. The assistant at her bridle spoke to her himself and urged her forward, and she walked into the starting gate. Thomas came to attention, waiting.

The gate sprang open as the bell sounded. #8, as predicted, bolted out like his tail was on fire. He already led by two lengths as they hit the first turn, but even House could tell there was a tug-of-war going on. He tried to spot #4, his choice, but the field was shifting too quickly on the turn. With amazing speed, the horses rounded the turn and raced onto the backstretch. Somehow, the pure physical surge of the start didn't translate to a TV monitor at the OTB.

Thomas settled back, and they both watched the big screen as the horses raced along the backstretch. #4 was going well, House saw. Thomas' #5 was right alongside. Both started moving up as they came to the far turn. #8 spit out the bit and started a rapid retreat through the field, and the jockey, knowing the race was over, didn't push. Then the horses were in the homestretch. The crowd came to its feet, and Thomas did, too. House reluctantly heaved himself up. #4 and 5 hit the lead together in a head-to-head battle down the stretch, both of them digging in, neither giving way, showing amazing determination for inexperienced racers. Suddenly, it all _did_ matter, his horse and his father's side by side, and House leaned forward a little on his cane. "Come on!" he urged softly, so softly that he couldn't have been overheard. #4 seemed to hear him, though, and found a little more. He was pulling forward now, edging away, although #5 stubbornly wasn't giving up. "Yes!" House hissed, a little louder that time. #4 had a neck's lead as they pounded toward the wire.

In the shadow of the finish line, Emily K, running in long, smooth strides, suddenly putting it all together as her jockey urged her on with his hands alone, the whip uncocked, caught the other two and surged by to win. #10 first by half a length, #4 second by a head, #5 third. House looked toward the board, unbelieving. Emily K had gone off at 27-1.

Thomas sat back down and gave his son a smile as House sank back into the bag of shirts, not worrying about the cushion being noticed this time. "I don't believe it," House objected. "That horse had _no_ chance!"

No Yoda imitation this time, just a grin. "Good race, Greg."


	10. Chapter 10

A/N: Thanks for all the reviews. Enjoy! Next chapter, Leather Jacket is spotted again. I originally saw that scene and this one as the same chapter, but I decided they work better split due to totally different subject matter

(H/C)

Once the prices were posted, Thomas' across the board $5 bet - technically three bets, that the horse would win, would finish in the first two, and would finish in the first three - paid off on all three portions, earning him well over $200. He now had a clear early lead in their betting competition.

House shook his head, still unable to believe it. "That one shouldn't count in your total," he insisted. "That bet was using your wife's system, not yours."

Thomas shrugged. "But it was my money."

"Oh, _nice_. You've got that one worked out so you'll win for the day no matter what. Even if _I'm _ahead by tonight, it was your money that made the bets, so you come out on top."

"No, Greg. That's not my $500 anymore; I gave it to you. I have no claims at all on it now."

House fidgeted. The whole concept of gifts without strings was still a difficult one, especially from anything resembling a father. "So if I decided to screw your little game here and did something else totally with it instead of bet, you wouldn't have any problem with that, no matter what I spent it on?"

"Not at all," Thomas said. Two seconds pause, and then he went on. "But that means I _would_ win our bet-off today."

House glared at him. "You sonofabitch." Thomas grinned at him as if it were a compliment. House shifted again in his seat. "Speaking of _gifts_. This mystery gift or gifts you brought for me, you said I _have_ seen it."

"Yes."

There was the faintest shift in the old man's expression there, and House jumped on it immediately. "This weekend?"

"No." Thomas settled back, apparently happy to play 20 questions. It was pissing his son off. Even while part of his mind seized the challenge, part just wanted the damned present, whatever it was.

"So I saw it back in Lexington?"

"No. Earlier."

House glared at him. "There's not much earlier to play with, since you haven't _been _there for most of my life." Thomas flinched, registering the blow, but held steady. "Back at the trial?"

"No."

House smacked his hand down on the armrest. "I'm _not_ going to chase through all those old visits just so you can get me to talk about them. That's what you're really after, isn't it?" Thomas had suggested a few times that House share his side of those encounters, but talking about the past with Jensen was bad enough. He sure as hell didn't want to go over it with Thornton.

"Greg." House looked up again, focusing, his eyes with an angry glint in them now. "I never said you saw it _on me_."

Curiosity nudged forward again, leading annoyance by a neck. "How else . . . in the pictures?"

"Yes." Thomas gave him a smile, but there was a tension behind it now, a slight uncertainty visible just for a moment. House realized to his surprise that the old man was feeling things out step by step during their day together much as he was. The point of the gift really _wasn't _to talk about the old visits. Then what?

His mind was unable to resist starting a slideshow of all the old pictures he had seen. "Something of my grandfather's?"

"Yes."

"In the house? Or something with _him_?"

"Something with him."

Timothy Thornton the original had been a lover of the casual when not on stage. Most of the candid shots showed him in comfortable clothes, no heirlooms in sight. House mentally shuffled through them, discarded them, and switched to the formal, concert shots. The hands had been what stood out, long, sensitive musician's hands. Those and his eyes and expression of focus dominated the musical pictures. But what else was in the background? Pianos, but House knew that Thomas didn't have his father's old piano, and the concerts had used a larger stage piano, a different one at each location. Sheet music? No music in sight, of course. Concerts were played from memory. He thought of the necklace and tried to remember any jewelry of masculine ilk. His wedding ring, but it looked plain, not heirloomish. "His ring?" he suggested, doubting it.

Thomas shook his head. "Close but no. Try again."

"Damn it, old man. You'd better not just be playing with me."

_Playing with me_, Thomas thought sadly. How he longed to be able to play with Greg, to simply enjoy each other spontaneously without the hesitation and the suspicion that were reflex reactions. It was slowly getting better, but the stiffness was still there with anything initiated by Thomas. His son's tone said it all. Playing with him, to Greg, carried the assumed purpose of mockery and dashed hopes, a cruel, one-sided game. Thomas was tempted to end it now and give the gift, but not in response to that comment. The timing would be misunderstood, simply underlining the elephant of the past, pitying him no matter how much Thomas denied it. This gift wasn't about the past - well, yes, in a way about the past - but more about the future still ahead of them, the _continuing_ story they were writing now. "The gifts are real, Greg," he promised.

Silence for a moment. Thomas looked at his watch and brushed his pocket unconsciously with his other hand, thinking, and House came to attention. "Your watch. You associate it with your watch." Thomas gave him a look of pure pride, and he locked onto the scent. That hadn't been a deliberate cue; the old man really hadn't realized his body language there. House returned to the pictures in his mind. There was a watch, fairly simple and not standing out, but Timothy Thornton had been wearing it in almost every shot, formal or candid. "Is it his watch?"

"Well done, Greg." Thomas pulled it out of his pocket and handed it over.

House took it tentatively. Wristwatches had gone into fashion after World War I, slowly pushing pocket watches aside over the next years, and this was clearly an early model. It was in good condition, though obviously aged, and ticking away. House made a mental note that it no doubt would require winding each evening. Turning it over in his hands, he saw the inscription. Carved into the metal of the back cover in small but precise letters was, _This is your time, my son._

Thomas was watching closely. He glanced at the people milling around, mostly going to the lines or the restroom or making their selections. None of them seemed interested in himself and Greg, but even so, he dropped the volume even further and switched into Italian. "My grandfather gave Dad that watch after he won a piano competition for a scholarship to music school. Dad was 17. He loved that watch. Always wore it."

_This is your time, my son_. House shivered slightly as if a long-dead ghost had spoken the words. A gift of love and pride and belief in his son, celebrating milestones. That was what his grandfather had known, even though his great-grandfather had not been musical. Was that how Thomas had felt about Tim? He scrambled for something to break the grip of the past, trying to escape the pull of the emotional current. "If Grandad always wore it, why wasn't it smashed up in the plane crash?"

"Pure luck. The face had been cracked in a ball game, and it was at the jeweler being repaired."

"Why didn't you give it to Tim?"

"I did. He saved it for special occasions, didn't wear it all the time, so it missed his car accident."

House was still looking at that inscription. "So it's just recycled," he stated. "If Tim were still around, he'd have it, not me."

"Yes, but if I had had my preference, _you _would have had it all along. Not Tim. It was a gift celebrating the music, Greg, and where that talent was taking him. It should have been yours anyway. Dad would have wanted that." Thomas could feel him struggling with the concept. He hoped this wasn't too much, but he had been longing to pass the watch on every bit as much as that necklace. He sensed that it was time to back off a step now, though, not prolonging the moment. He dropped back into English. "So that's _one_ gift."

House clutched at the offered straw like a life preserver in the churning sea of emotion. "What's the other? Or is it others?"

"Just one, but _that_ one is back in Princeton, and you'll have to wait for it. Maybe tonight after the girls are asleep."

"Have I seen _it_?" he asked.

"No." Thomas smiled at him, then, to his relief, turned to the program. "We'd better pick our choices for the second. The post parade will be starting soon."

House looked at the watch one more time. _This is your time, my son_. He reread the words, then shoved the watch - though carefully - into his pocket. He opened his program again, but one hand kept creeping back to that pocket, just to brush the outside of it. "I like #6 in this one. Won last time out at the same distance on this track. What about you?"

"I like #6, too. Subject to seeing him in the post parade, of course."

"Nope." House settled back with relief into being disagreeable. "We _can't_ pick the same horse. That violates the rules of the competition, and I picked him first."

"I don't remember that rule," Thomas protested.

"But you're an old man, after all. You're far more likely to drop a few details than I am. I _definitely_ remember that rule. If we're competing against each other here, we can't both pick the same nag to bet on."

Thomas chuckled. "I'll bet an exacta then. #6 and #3, unless I change my mind after seeing them. Satisfied?"

"Only an exacta," House emphasized. "You can't play the same horse I'm on as a straight bet. Otherwise, it doesn't count."

"Deal. I'm well ahead, after all, so I can afford to make a few concessions to you." He laughed outright at his son's glare as the bugler called the horses out for the post parade for the second race.


	11. Chapter 11

A/N: Thanks for the reviews, and enjoy this chapter. Hopefully another update can be fit in on the 4th while work is low due to the holiday, so it shouldn't be too long.

(H/C)

House won on the second race, #6 leading by two clear lengths at the wire. Thomas' exacta - a bet that two horses would finish first and second in that order - on #6 and #3 almost worked out but was spoiled at the very end by #1, who caught #3 right before the finish and claimed second place.

"Won that one," House said with satisfaction as he sat back down after the horses crossed the line. "Watch out, old man. This day is far from over."

"I'm looking forward to the rest of it." Thomas watched #6 continue on around the first turn as his jockey pulled him up gradually from full throttle to a walk. "That's a nice horse. Probably has a decent future, at least if they don't get too ambitious. He could do a lot of winning at his level." House was just waiting for Thomas to protest the result and point out that he would have bet # 6 to win himself if not for the additional contest rules. His father didn't mention it, though, instead still looking at the horses, who had stopped by now and turned around, heading back to the front of the grandstand to meet their grooms and trainers. "He's a blood bay, too," Thomas went on.

House looked more closely, seeing #6 as a horse now, not as gambling dollars on the hoof. Ember was a blood bay. "That's not as vivid as Ember looked in the picture." This was reddish hued but not on fire.

"It's early March," Thomas replied. "He is in full training, and he's been clipped so he can cool off better, but a winter coat even clipped short never quite has the same look as a summer one, especially on blood bays. He'll be a lot brighter in a few months." He turned to his son, smiling. "Who do you like in the next race, Greg?"

House opened the program and studied it. This race was one he had been on the fence about in his homework, trying to split two horses with almost identical form, #6 and #7. "Let's go down to the paddock for this one and watch them get saddled." Not that the old man would make his decision for him, of course, but Thomas _did_ know horses, and his observations on the post parades so far had been spot on. He didn't limit comments to his own selections, either. House was curious about what Thomas would notice with more time to watch the field, although he was damned if he was going to ask for his opinion outright. House _did_ have his own logically selected top choices in mind already. This would only be a little more data to add to the differential.

He also wanted to try the longer trek at some point just to read the old man's reaction to his own physical cues, and better to try it early in the day than later. His leg was only going to get more annoyed as the afternoon rolled on. He stood up and firmly shoved the bag with the shirts at Thomas. He had bought them, after all; he could carry them. House picked up the other bag with the model horse.

Thomas stood up without protest, taking the shirts. "I'd like that. We should have time to get a really good read on the field that way." He stepped out into the aisle, and House followed, watching closely. Once clear of the seats, Thomas waited, and they walked on side by side to the large area just behind their section with all the amenities. Thomas' stride caught just for a second, a barely noticeable break.

House immediately followed his father's attention. There was Leather Jacket, much closer now. He was standing still, holding his program in one hand and studying the betting lines and the monitors from the other tracks, looking like any fan making selections, and yet there _was _a difference, damn it. House had to agree with his father. A slight tightening around the eyes, an almost too-casual air, an undefined intensity. This man didn't quite match the rest. If he were a patient or a patient's family, House would have bet a month's salary that there was a secret there, whether it turned out to be the medically relevant secret or not. The man wasn't looking their way at all at the moment, and Thomas pulled out his cell phone and handed it to his son smoothly, turning to face him. "Get a picture of me, Greg," he suggested, posing holding his open program in front of his chest, wide smile, the very essence of a fan. House backed off a step and zoomed to focus over Thomas' left shoulder, getting a perfect shot in profile.

He handed the phone back to Thomas, and they huddled up to study the result. "Nice picture," Thomas approved.

"What are you going to do with it?" House asked softly.

"Don't know yet." His eyes flicked sideways, keeping an eye on the target. "It might come in handy later just in case anything were to happen. Of course, I could draw him, but no point in abandoning technology when it's available." He sighed. "He's getting in the betting lines now. I'd swear he's up to _something_, but . . ." He shook himself slightly. "But this is our day. Come on, let's head on down to the paddock, Greg."

House's curiosity was rising. "No, let's go ahead and bet now." He moved into the line next to the man and about four people behind him. Thomas joined him without objection, and both of them buried their noses studiously in House's program while they inched forward. Once House had cashed his last ticket and they placed new bets - House chose #7 of his two possibles so he would not be simply selecting #6, the number he had just won on - they moved away. Thomas sat down on a bench, and House dropped onto it next to him. Leather Jacket was now in the concession line, and, still apparently perusing their programs, they watched.

"I think he's interested in one of the betting clerks," Thomas said.

"The man eight windows to the right of the line he was in," House agreed.

Thomas' look was pure pride. "Yes. There's some kind of personal grudge there."

Leather Jacket had glanced toward that window a few times even now in the concession line. "But he doesn't want him to know he's here," House continued. "At least not yet."

Thomas nodded. "Eight lines away. Definitely undercover. It might even be a false mustache; he's stroked it a few times."

"Some people do when they're thinking," House challenged. "Doesn't mean it isn't his." He actually agreed with Thomas on the possibility, but he couldn't resist arguing the point anyway.

"And I think he might be carrying," Thomas added.

"Left side if he is. And he's kept that jacket zipped up."

Leather Jacket reached the front of the line, purchased a burger and a beer, and walked on down the hallway toward a different section of the stands. His stride picked up, moving briskly on now instead of his casual attitude for the last few minutes. House couldn't possibly have kept up with him, and Thomas didn't get up to try, but the two of them watched him clear out of sight, and at that moment, the elusive similarity of expression between them was so apparent that one passerby thought to herself how nice it was to see a father and son out together enjoying a day at the races.

(H/C)

"But you haven't actually seen him do anything suspicious?" The rent-a-cop on duty in the main track security office sat back in his chair and studied the picture on Thomas' cell phone. "He's been in the casino, placed bets, bought food. Nothing else?"

"Would you rather wait until _after_ he does something?" House snapped. The security office hadn't been as far as the paddock would have been, but his leg hadn't liked the walk, and he fought the urge to massage it.

The guard turned back to Thomas. "You say you were a Marine. In Nam, were you?"

"_No_, I was all over the place." Thomas was fighting to keep annoyance out of his own tone. "I worked in intelligence. And I've seen people plotting something before, dozens of times. This man has a personal grudge against that specific clerk, and he's planning somehow to act on it before too long. It would be the clerk at window 2034. We're just suggesting that you talk to that clerk and warn him before the day ends. I wouldn't want him ambushed in the parking lot or followed home to assault him there."

"So you have flashbacks to your service a lot?" the guard asked.

"No, I don't. I am _not_ imagining this. And I think he is carrying, too. That violates your facility rules."

"It would if he _is_ carrying, but you haven't seen a gun, either." The guard looked at the phone picture again. He had to admit, that jacket could hide a gun nicely, though. He wasn't sure what to make of the old man. He sounded sharp enough, but there weren't really even suspicious actions to report here.

"He's definitely not imagining it," House jumped in. "This man looks wrong to me, too, idiot. I'm Dr. Gregory House." The name obviously didn't mean anything to the guard. Of course, when half of America had heard of the Chandler trial, they would have the luck to get someone who hadn't followed the media. "Does the name Chandler ring a bell? Serial child abuser across several states, including this one? Trial last summer? I'm the doctor who knew he was a lowlife the first time I saw him, and I was _right_. And I'm telling you, this man is plotting something."

The guard sighed. "May I see your ID, please, sirs?" Both of them fished them out, House grumbling, Thomas just trying to hurry the inevitable. The guard studied them, then stood. "I'll be back in a minute." He disappeared through a door.

"Told you this was a waste of time," House snapped. "He's going to run _us _through the police, now. Try to warn them about somebody else, and welcome to the spotlight yourself."

"Yes." Thomas looked at his watch. "Hopefully he'll move on to other steps from there in time to warn that clerk before the day ends so he can be on guard." He was sure this was personal. Eight lines away. The man didn't just want something like a long-range shot across the room. He wanted a face to face confrontation, but he wanted it on his terms.

"Waste of time," House repeated. "Meanwhile, we're going to miss the 3rd."

"Probably."

The guard emerged and handed their IDs back across the desk. Routine checks on these two were on their way to Philadelphia PD. "We can't pull him in just because you think he feels wrong," he said. "But what we can do is watch for him. You said he was in that section acting like any betting fan. I'll send a couple of men up there with his picture and try to catch him in a betting line before a race. Soon as he tries to place a bet, we have the right to card him. We can card anybody betting to make sure they're legal. That will give us his ID, and I'll run that through Philly PD to see if it hits anything. Maybe we'll get lucky and he has a warrant. At the least, it will let him know that we're watching. And we will also warn that clerk before he leaves tonight to be careful. That's the most I can do." He handed Thomas his phone back, along with a card. "Could you email that picture to this address, Mr. Thornton?" Thomas did so, and the guard turned to the computer on the desk. "Got it. Thank you, gentlemen, for bringing this matter to our attention. And could I have your seat numbers?"

A minute later, they left the security office. House was still grumbling. "Idiot."

"Maybe he does have a warrant. At least they're going to do _something_ once they hear back that we're clean, and the clerk should be safe enough around all these people until the end of the day. Whatever this man wants, Greg, it's focused on him, not the whole crowd."

They walked over to the elevator, and as they pushed the button, the announcer stated, "The horses have reached the starting gate."

"Go ahead and run up the stairs, and you might still see it," House snapped.

Thomas shook his head. "No, Greg. I'm staying with you." He still sounded worried and distracted, not even the prospect of horses catching his attention. "Thank you for backing me up in there. He wouldn't have taken me that seriously otherwise. Just some old military vet living in the past." His tone had an edge on it.

House shrugged. "It wasn't about you. I just wanted to get out of that office at least in time to catch the 4th."

Thomas hid his smile. "Thanks anyway. I could have used you in a lot of tight spots. You'd make good backup."

"They're OFF!" The announcement ran through the grandstand as the elevator opened on the 2nd level and House and Thomas exited. The crowd was lighter now, more of them out on the front side of the grandstand, and most of those remaining in the area were clustered up around the monitors for this track to watch the race. House gave a quick look around, but he didn't see Leather Jacket.

Thomas turned sharply. "The clerk is going on break, Greg. Come on." He lengthened stride just for two steps, then quickly remembered, slowing back down. Sure enough, the clerk from that line had slid the closed sign into his window as soon as betting closed on the race once the starting gate opened. He was now making his way to the bathroom. "If he recognizes our man, he can light a fire under security even faster without waiting for them to find a chance to card him. And it warns him sooner. He can keep an eye out."

House hung back just for a second, tempted to tell Thomas to go on alone just to see if he would. The old man looked much younger suddenly, his eyes intent, on a mission. House's own damnable curiosity wouldn't let him try the test, though. He was interested in the clerk's answer every bit as much as his father was.

Hitting his best limping speed and ignoring his leg's protests, he headed for the restroom, and Thomas stayed with him. This was a large restroom, the main one on this level, one of those with a sort of U passageway entrance made of walls instead of a door. It was almost empty, everyone out watching the race. Only the betting clerk was there, at the far end using the last urinal in line.

Thomas pulled out his cell phone. "Excuse me, sir," he said, approaching. "Do you recognize this man?" He offered the cell phone.

The man's expression had been wavering between who-the-hell-are-you and the professional courtesy demanded from him as an employee of the track, but he couldn't help glancing down at the picture. Horrified recognition knocked every other emotion off his face. "That's my wife's ex. He's _here_?" He stared at the obvious racetrack background, disbelieving.

"He's here," Thomas confirmed. "We took that today. He's very interested in you, too. Sir, you need to go to security and give them his name, and you need to watch your back. Don't give him an opportunity to. . ."

The man was ignoring him, scrambling for his own cell phone. He dropped it, and House and Thomas both backed up a step or two, giving him room, as he fumbled for it. Still holding Thomas' phone in one hand, he frantically dialed his own with the other. "Honey, listen. Dale is in town. He's here at the track. Yes, I'm sure. He's got a mustache now. Some guys got a picture of him, and they said he's watching me. I'm . . . yes, I'll be careful, but I want you to lock all the doors and keep an eye out, just in case he's found the address. . . the restraining order might not stop him. . . I will, Kate, but you . . ." He froze, looking beyond them, and House and Thomas both turned.

Leather Jacket stood in the open doorway, smiling across the full length of the restroom at him. "Well, looks like I caught you with your pants down," he said in appreciation. The other two men didn't exist; he was totally fixated on the betting clerk, and House, looking at his eyes, realized now with full 5-alarm medical instincts, not just general out-of-place impressions, how dangerous this man was. Whatever the cause, STD, megalomania, or other, he had some mental screws loose. Rational and able to plot but only more dangerous for that.

The jacket was unzipped quickly, and the man stuck his right hand in on the left and pulled out not a gun but a detonator switch. Thomas, who had taken about two surreptitious quick steps in that direction so far, froze again, weighing the scene. House came up to his side.

"Don't try it," he whispered. Thomas nodded once. He'd hoped if it was a gun that he could tackle him quickly enough to knock the aim off, especially with the man so fixated on his target, but a bomb required no aim. There was no way anybody could take him down before his finger hit the switch.

House's mind was in full gallop. Best hope was help from the other side and distraction in the meantime. Time bought possibilities, and they needed some new ones here. House slipped his left hand into his pocket, remembering Cuddy a year ago, and dialed 911 by feel. Keep him talking. "Have you been having cold sweats lately? Anxiety?" he asked. Leather Jacket turned for a fraction of a second to look at him. "I'm a doctor. _The_ doctor, in fact. Amazing what we can treat these days, but bombs are an extreme cure. You can't do much getting well after you kill yourself."

Leather Jacket turned away and refocused, dismissing him. "Say goodnight, Kate," he called. "You get to live forever knowing that he's dead because of you." He tightened his grip on the switch and took one step forward, smiling as he advanced slowly into the long room, heading for his prey, and House knew he was going to do it.

Thomas moved far faster. In one lightning sweep, he snatched his son's cane and sent it whipping across the room with all the force he could put behind it. With perfect aim, it struck Leather Jacket hard on the chest, knocking him backwards into the entry passageway as his finger came down on the switch. In the split second after hurling the cane, even before it connected, Thomas tackled his son to the floor, his body on top as they fell, and they were already almost down before the world exploded into darkness.


	12. Chapter 12

A/N: Sorry for that cliffhanger. And this one. And any future cliffs that might hypothetically be out there. :) I did warn you all up front that this story was not just a fluffy feel-good dessert.

The episode that gave me the seed of this story idea was Help Me, although I have an entirely different plant growing from that seed. Apologies for any bomb, disaster, or damaged building errors that made it past research here. Thanks for reading and reviewing. I will try to keep it rolling for you now that we are into what I consider the main story, but it might be in very small bites. RL is complicated and can be a bit unpredictable.

(H/C)

Pain and pressure.

They framed his world like bookends, pressing in from each side, as consciousness hesitantly returned. His leg was screaming at him, but his left side was hurting sharply as well, and something hard and jagged lay underneath him, digging in. There didn't seem to be enough oxygen, and as his lungs fought for air, his mind started a confused differential, uncertain at first where he was. He was absolutely pinned down, held captive and pressed right into the floor and the uncomfortable edges of whatever was beneath him, but his mind's initial effort to plug in that and the difficulty breathing could not quite match the memory it first selected. The room was close, tight, _dusty_, but this wasn't the smell of carpet glue. Somewhere, he heard water flowing. Somewhere much closer, he could feel something warm running down his cheek. There were other sounds in the distance, the groans of a wounded building as if it were alive and in pain itself.

House opened his eyes. No, definitely not carpet glue. He wasn't on his back but lying mostly on his stomach and tilted toward the left side, and the weight on top of him was far heavier and warmer than John's band of carpet that had constricted his chest. Even with no glue here, he still seemed to be having difficulty breathing. He tried to push off the floor and raise his head, fighting whatever pinned him, and in spite of the stab from about a dozen sore points, right leg and left side leading the way, he got enough of a look to start to orient himself in the sickly, flickering, half-broken light. Memory flooded back.

The racetrack.

The bathroom.

The explosion.

_Thornton. _

"Hey!" He managed to reach his right hand back, finding an arm. "Are you all right?" No response. He urgently followed the arm to a wrist, checking the pulse. It was there, though rather fast. "Talk to me, old man. _Thomas!" _Nothing. The beat under his fingers didn't react in the slightest to his shout.

It seemed to take forever to free himself; Thomas was just about spread eagled over him. House noted that and filed the fact for later analysis. There were far more urgent matters needing his attention first. But his own body wasn't cooperating very well, and he was forced to stop for a few seconds to pant at regular intervals as he pried himself loose. Before he had even halfway made his escape, he was certain that he had broken ribs on the left, at least two, maybe three. He had landed on something hard when Thomas tackled him to the floor. Later on, it would prove to be the bag which had been looped over his left wrist and which contained Rachel's model horse, now in three pieces. His leg had been strained badly, too.

Thomas was as tall as House himself and weighed around 15 pounds more, and the effort was torture. House slowly fought his way out from under, trying to gain enough room that he could turn around and see. As well as he could see anything, that was. The electricity was still on, but the lights were flickering and only about half working. Part of House's mind knew that the idiots out there would shut it off at some point, probably a good thing as a fire definitely wasn't going to improve their situation, but he had to seize these precious moments of quasi visibility while he had them.

Finally, he had his torso out and was able to lift up on an elbow and turn. The sharp stab of his ribs took the rest of his scant breath away. Thomas lay mostly face down on the floor now with his son removed from between, and a red puddle was starting to form on the tile, the same river of life that had been flowing down across his son's cheek earlier. House quickly rolled him onto his back, managing to finish freeing his own leg in the process. Blood covered the whole right side of Thomas' face, flowing freely, not arterial bleeding but still far too much. House pressed a hand against it and looked around the shattered bathroom for anything he could use.

The shirts. That bag was nearby in the floor, and he quickly retrieved a sweatshirt, nicely thick and absorbent. He wiped off the old man's face first, trying to uncover the damage for inspection. It proved to be about a 3-inch gash across his right temple with the blood welling up eagerly almost as soon as it was exposed to view. House wadded the sweatshirt up and pressed down hard. Using a T-shirt, he wiped off Thomas' face again, searching for any other wounds. A couple of small nicks but nothing actively bleeding. The bad cut at his temple was the culprit for this red river, and a matching piece of shattered block lay within reach, its edge faintly red, like the tip of a magic marker. It had struck him as the wall blew up.

Still holding pressure tightly, House wiped off the sticky stream of Thomas' blood from his own cheek with the second shirt. He thoroughly looked the old man over. Several other nicks and cuts, some bleeding but no others dangerously so. Thomas' left shoulder, which had led the first sideways force of his tackle, was canted at an impossible angle, dislocated. No other obvious bony injuries to a one-handed palpation. He was breathing steadily, pulse stable but still fast, and House would have liked it a little stronger. Abdomen wasn't hard. His pupils were impossible to assess in this crazy light. With a side-stabbing effort, House managed to roll him up again onto his side, still holding pressure tightly to his temple, and checked his back. It had more cuts than the front, but they had all self clotted.

He let his father roll back down, and he sat back himself, gasping, sweat dripping off his face. He took the sweatshirt away from the cut for a moment to check. Making progress; the bleeding was still there but less eager now. He switched to the other sweatshirt for a clean and unsaturated pad and pressed down again. Finally, he took time for a thorough inspection of their trap.

The neat walls of the entrance passageway had vanished, replaced with a pile of rubble that filled the gap completely. No light worked its way through from the other side. Small pieces of block were scattered across the floor of the bathroom, and the air was chokingly thick with dust. It looked like most of the force had gone sideways as well as up, but the bomber had been in the entrance passage, not in the actual open room, at the moment of detonation, and those former walls in between the blast and themselves had probably saved them. The building was still groaning and protesting its treatment.

On the other side, between the two of them and the far wall, lay the betting clerk. His head had obviously hit the urinal as he fell, and the urinal if not his head was broken. Water flowed across that corner from a cracked pipe. House, squinting through the dust, could see the man breathing, but he wasn't moving. No red rivers visible from here, and House wasn't going to let go of the pressure on his father yet to do triage on that one. First, he had to make sure this bleeding was stopped. Thomas apparently needed first aid the worst of the three of them, although House had a sinking feeling that all of them would be heading for a hospital before this day was over. Hopefully through some entrance besides that near the morgue.

The phone, House remembered. The clerk had been holding both Thomas' cell and his own, and House could see neither of them at the moment, but he had dialed 911 in his pocket on his own phone seconds before the blast. He dug in the pocket, pulled out the smashed and lifeless phone, and then hurled it across the room into the rubble pile in disgust. The 84-year-old watch of his grandfather's which had been in the same pocket was still ticking away for all the good that did. The feeling of relief that it had survived was totally illogical, but it brought a very brief smile to his face just the same. He carefully pocketed it again.

No phones, then. Couldn't call for help. Surely help was coming, though. You couldn't set off a bomb in a public facility and not have _somebody_ out there notice. Even those rent-a-cop idiots could put this one together. Plus his own truncated 911 call, plus the betting clerk's wife, who must have heard the whole thing on the phone and was probably having hysterics. No, people knew they were here, and emergency services would be coming. All they had to do was wait to be dug out.

He could almost feel the watch in his pocket ticking, though. Time made a difference on some injuries, particularly on head injuries. Or internal bleeding. He hoped they all had the time required.

Cuddy. She would totally flip when she heard, and the media was no doubt on top of this one as quickly as 911 (hopefully 911). Tweets were probably already hitting the world, and live broadcasts would be hard on their heels. He had to get word to Cuddy. He looked around frantically again for one of the other two phones, but he couldn't see them. They were probably as broken as his had been, anyway. Thinking of Cuddy and looking down at Thomas' closed eyes, he tried something he very rarely had in life. "Help!" His voice rang around the tile walls. "Can anybody hear me? I need help in here."

The building creaked as if in reply, and then there was a sudden shuffle, a crack, and the rush of an avalanche. House bent over Thomas, ducking his own head protectively, as a piece of the ceiling fell, adding to the rubble pile between them and safety. Just as he decided it was over and started to straighten back up, the lights failed with a spectacular snap and sizzle as a strained line apparently gave way somewhere in the damage. Tomblike darkness settled over them.


	13. Chapter 13

A/N: Here's another short bite. It's far shorter than I intended, meant to give the Cuddy scene, too, but today is turning out busier than anticipated both with work and otherwise. That's good, at least the work part. Happy 4th of July to everyone.

I have seen Help Me. The night it aired was the night that I turned off the TV at the end and bade goodbye to the television series House, and believe me, no reader could be more shocked than I was that that episode would give me the start of an idea for this story a few years later. My muse has a mind of her own, though. Another reviewer wondered about House sharing his meds - I missed the episode reference there, as I haven't seen anything past Help Me, but you would never give narcotics to somebody with an unevaluated acute head injury. So that's not going to happen, but it has more to do with medical reasons than any kind of emotional/relational significance. As for various other wonderings on where we're heading, wait and see, and I hope you enjoy the journey! Thanks for all the reviews.

(H/C)

Wilson loved his son. Truly, he did. He was enjoying being a father, a delightful new world to explore as he spent time with him and watched his son grow. Daniel was beginning to show his individual personality now, mixing traits of his parents with emerging delicious flavors all his own that made the whole experience even better.

But Wilson also suspected at times that his offspring had radar that alerted him to any sort of special plans, as well as a sadistic streak that deliberately tried to thwart them. Clothes that Wilson put on to go somewhere were much more likely to be spit up on than casual around-the-house wear, and in fact, the likelihood of a last-minute accident seemed to increase in direct proportion to the importance of the function to which he was heading. Then there was sex. Wilson was enjoying in every way being back with Sandra, but the number of times that the kid had woken up and demanded attention just as they were getting started, or even worse, _after_ they had started and were well along the journey, was suspicious.

This weekend, Daniel definitely seemed to know that something big was up, and in consequence, he was fussier than usual, more clingy than usual, and harder to get to sleep and keep asleep at all points for both naps and Friday night. Sandra even noticed it herself and worried whether he might be coming down with something, but he didn't have a fever and was eating fine. Wilson had to fight temptation to toss off a truly Housian snark in reply that their son just realized he wanted to propose and was determined never to give him the opportunity.

Damn it, why did it seem so hard to find a perfect moment? It hadn't been nearly this difficult to pop the question with his previous wives.

Of course, it also hadn't meant this much with his previous wives.

Finally, after a long, demanding day that followed a long, demanding night, Daniel was now down for a nap. Wilson checked him again to make sure and then closed the door like a mouse and tiptoed down the hall. He put his hand in his pocket and touched the box with the ring, reassured a little by the solidity of it. This was his chance.

Sandra was in the kitchen, looking in the refrigerator with that expression of inventory with which one makes shopping lists. Once he wouldn't have thought that sexy, but now he thought it was - and infinitely more besides. This was home. She heard his footsteps and turned, smiling. "He's really asleep this time?"

"Wonders never cease. I was beginning to think he wasn't going to surrender this whole weekend."

"Are you all right, James?" she asked. "You seem on edge yourself."

There was no suspicion in her tone, only concern. He bumped the outside of his pocket and squared his shoulders, carefully launching his rehearsed speech. "Sandra, I've got something I've been wanting to tell you. In all the years . . ."

His cell phone rang.

Wilson groaned. "Damn it!" There was a conspiracy this weekend. He was tempted to ignore it, but he couldn't bring himself to, and neither could Sandra. The medical on-call instincts were too engrained in both of them. It could just be House calling to check up on his plans as a Thornton distraction, buying himself a few minutes' break, but it could also be the hospital.

"You'd better answer it," Sandra voted. She had her own mental list open, patients at the top.

He pulled it out and checked caller ID. Not House. Not PPTH. It was Jensen. His first fleeting thought was that _Jensen_ was calling to check up on his plans, since Jensen knew about them, but he realized a split second later how out of character that would be. Jensen was unfailingly polite even while being annoyingly persistent as required by his profession, and he also had the admirable and rare quality of ability to wait for details until later. If Jensen was calling him on a Saturday afternoon, there really was an urgent reason for it. "Jensen," he informed Sandra, and he hit the button. "Hello."

Jensen's tone knocked the remnants of his exasperation and annoyance clear out of the room. "James, did Dr. House and Thornton go to the races today like they'd planned?" There was a tightness in his voice, not only tension but actual fear.

"As far as I know. I haven't talked to him since yesterday afternoon, but all plans were go then. They were just leaving for the airport. Cuddy could tell you definitely. What's wrong?"

"Melissa and I went to the OTB today. We've been following the action at Philadelphia, and they've just reported an explosion in the grandstand."

Cold fear started squeezing at Wilson's insides. "An explosion?" Sandra came up closer, instantly concerned, and he put it on speaker.

"Yes. I've tried calling him five times. No answer. I don't have Thornton's number to try his."

"Cuddy," Wilson realized. "She'll have a stroke when she hears about this."

"That's why I didn't call her. You need to get over there, James, and tell her in person. She doesn't need to learn this from the media, and she doesn't need to be alone afterwards. She isn't going to be safe to drive."

"We're on our way," Sandra volunteered. "I can stay with the girls, and James can go with her." They all knew that Cuddy would be heading for Philadelphia at top speed as soon as she found out. Waiting back in Princeton for news wasn't an option, not for her.

"Thank you, Sandra." Jensen was thoroughly shaken up but still tracking details, reminding Wilson once again of House. "You might call in Marina for backup, too, if you need to. She could help with waiting with the girls."

Sandra moved away to gather a diaper bag. "How bad does it look?" Wilson asked.

"We're just watching simulcast, not the news, but they believe it's affected at least two levels of the grandstand. The rest of the races are cancelled, and they're starting to try to move the crowd out now. On the screen, looks like the building is standing fine, but it's massive. Apparently all the damage is interior. It isn't leveled, at least. All I'm seeing is people walking out."

"The crowd," Wilson repeated. "There have to be thousands of people there who aren't involved or hurt at all. Odds are that House and Thornton are part of them. They probably shut down cell phone service immediately at the track to keep someone from using it to trigger any more bombs. Assuming it was a bomb." There were other causes for explosions, but in today's world, bombs had to lead the list.

"Good point on the cell phones," Jensen agreed. He didn't touch the other half of Wilson's statement. Both of them knew that if only ten people among thousands were impacted, House was an excellent candidate to be among those ten. He did have the worst luck, and Thornton's didn't seem much better.

Sandra came back down the hall, moving with swift efficiency, Daniel still asleep in his carrier in one hand, the diaper bag in the other. "We're leaving now to head for Cuddy," Wilson said.

"Keep me posted, James," Jensen requested.

"I will," Wilson promised. He ended the call and grabbed his car keys. The ring was still in his pocket, but concern for House and also for Cuddy, even some for Thornton as well, didn't leave room for him to be peeved as he hurried out the door with his family. There were more urgent priorities right now. The ring could wait.


	14. Chapter 14

A/N: Sorry for the delay, but real life trumps fanfiction. Hope you enjoy this one and thanks for all the reviews. Next chapter returns to House and Thomas.

(H/C)

Cuddy sat in the rocking chair in the nursery, Rachel in her lap. Abby was sound asleep in her piano bed she had received for her second birthday. Rachel had been miffed today at the men having a special day off together without her, and while she had enjoyed the park and the mall thoroughly, in undistracted moments, she returned to wishing she could have gone along with them. She had also been very hard to convince to take a nap, but Cuddy had agreed at last that she didn't need one and that they could look at books together while Abby slept, only they had to stay very quiet so as not to wake up her sister. Proud to be up alone, Rachel had latched onto that plan, but she fell asleep before too long, as Cuddy expected. Today had been quite demanding for a toddler so far, physically and mentally, and Rachel needed to recharge even if she didn't think so.

Right now, still rocking Rachel gently, looking occasionally from her to Abby, Cuddy let her mind stroll into the future, enjoying the scenery. Thomas was so good with the girls, and House had already given in on that front even if he hadn't said so outright yet. All his remaining doubts were personal. She knew that Thomas would be moving up to Princeton before long, and then the fun would really start. She couldn't wait to have him around full time. He would have his own place, of course; that line would be for the benefit of all of them, she thought. As much as he loved family, he also had a deeply private side, as well as treasured mementos of his life with Emily and Tim. He needed some space that was his, not just a permanent guest room. But while living nearby, he still could be around practically every day. He could see the grandchildren he had always wanted and never thought he would have. The girls could grow up with his quirky combination of steady and playful as a constant presence in their lives, and they would be better for it.

And House. Above all, she looked forward to House and Thomas living close to each other and spending time together, not just like today but accepting each other, father and son, for years to come. She knew that all of the old wounds of the past would never heal, that scarring over was the best that could be hoped for with many, but there were also some that might still be salved, even if decades late. This would be so good for her husband.

On Thomas' side, the crushing loneliness that he never directly mentioned but which was obvious would be eased. Already, he looked so much more alive now in spirit than he had last July on that first meeting during the trial when he was fresh back from his trip around Europe after Emily's death only to be blindsided by the revelations about John and his son's past.

And what of herself? What future did she and Thomas have? She raised a hand to touch the emerald necklace. Part of her almost felt guilty for how close she was growing to him, and part of her wanted to tell that nagging sense of obligation to her own parents to shut up, that they had had their chance for years, even for decades. If they hadn't used it fully, that was their own fault. Her relationship with them had improved a lot since her marriage, but she didn't think that love between the three of them was ever going to be be able to truly express itself spontaneously. Always, it would hesitate to consider appearances. She was _comfortable_ around Thomas, and she didn't feel that need for the opening seconds of inventory with him in any conversation or meeting. She really needed to discuss this with Patterson.

Stealthily, she shifted in the rocking chair, gathering herself. Rachel didn't stir. Cuddy slowly came to her feet, tucked Rachel in her bed with the stuffed Ember on one side and Mr. Bear on the other, gave a final check on Abby, and then walked to the living room. She found herself looking at the pictures. There was House playing the piano at Cathy's birthday party, the one he called Jensen's ambush shot. Pictures of them with the girls. Thomas' drawing of Blythe was on the wall. House kept a copy of the picture of his grandfather playing the piano in a drawer of the desk, easily accessible but not on display. She couldn't wait to add that one to the public collection, as well as a few pictures of Thomas himself.

She hoped their day was going well. They had agreed not to call each other, because Rachel, if she overheard a conversation, would be agitated all over again and feeling left out, but House had sent her a text about an hour ago. It simply said, _"Haven't killed each other yet."_ She smiled, easily reading the unspoken wish for reassurance, just wanting to know she was there. She replied promptly. "_Good, because I'm expecting both of you back here tonight. Love you, Greg."_ He had replied, "_Love you, too," _but let the conversation end at that. He had simply wanted to lean against her for a moment. She knew how much this day was pushing him.

Caught up in the pictures and her own thoughts, she didn't hear the car door outside, but she couldn't have missed the decisive knock on the front door. She went over to open it and, puzzled, stepped back to let Wilson and Sandra in. "Hi. I wasn't expecting to see you two today. Did anything . . ." She trailed off, unsure how to tactfully phrase it, and glanced at Sandra's left hand. No ring. But while they both were tense, there didn't seem to be friction between them.

Sandra set the carrier with her sleeping son down on the floor, and Wilson took Cuddy's arm, gently nudging her toward the couch. "I've got something to tell you, but sit down first, okay?"

She immediately and stubbornly rebelled, standing still, a resolute if petite rock of Gibralter in the living room. "What is it? Tell me _now_." He almost had his delivering-cancer-diagnosis expression on, but there was a subtle difference behind it that frightened her. "Are you two all right? Is something wrong with Daniel?"

"We're fine." Wilson looked around the living room. "House and Thornton are off on their day, I guess." He already knew his friend wasn't here. House was hard to overlook, even on the rare occasions he was quiet. He changed the whole feel of any house just by being present.

"Yes, they left this morning." She glanced quickly back toward the nursery. "And please don't mention that once Rachel's awake. She's feeling left out today, and she didn't even know they would be spending the whole day looking at horses. Wilson, what is wrong?"

She had her heels dug in, and his gentle shepherding efforts weren't coming any closer to the couch. He sighed and plunged in. There was no easy way to break this news, but it would break itself before long if he didn't, and finding out that way would be even worse. "There's been an accident at the racetrack."

Every shred of color drained from her face, and she snatched for her cell phone. She was suddenly pliable again, even a little wobbly, and Wilson took advantage of the moment to push her the rest of the way to the couch and seat her firmly. House didn't answer, obviously, no more than he had answered Jensen or Wilson himself on several tries so far. Cuddy changed numbers to try Thomas. Nothing. She stared at the phone accusingly, then started trying them again in turn. Sandra sat down next to her, gripping her arm. "_What _kind of accident?" Cuddy demanded.

They had a few more details by now. Sandra had read the breaking news stories, incomplete and preliminary as they were, on her phone while Wilson drove over. She had also looked up directions to the track for him. "There was an explosion about twenty minutes ago," Wilson said. "They're still evaluating the scene, trying to move the crowd out. They probably shut down phone service there, Cuddy. It can be used to trigger a bomb. So the men could still be perfectly fine even though they aren't answering." He sat down on her other side. "The damage is very localized, based on preliminary news stories. The building took a significant hit behind the seating area, but it also happened right during the final stages of a race, so most of the crowd was out front watching. They don't think there were as many people in the immediate area right then as there would have been earlier or later. No numbers on injuries yet."

She shook her head, pushing away the attempted reassurance. "He would call me. He'd let me know as soon as he could." House would never allow her to discover an explosion close to his location through friends or through the news instead of in person - unless he _couldn't_ tell her. Unless he was too hurt to communicate.

"Maybe he just can't call," Sandra proposed. "If they shut down cell phone service. . ."

Cuddy interrupted her. "He'd find a way. Somehow. And it wouldn't take him twenty minutes." She still looked frighteningly pale, but she rocketed up from the couch suddenly, shaking off both sets of supporting hands. "I've got to get down there. Can you two stay with the girls?"

Wilson pulled out his car keys immediately. "I'll drive you. Sandra will stay with them."

Sandra stood up, touching Cuddy reassuringly on the arm again. "Don't worry about the girls. If you'll give me Marina's number, I'll call her, too. You go on, but please, let James drive. Getting in a wreck on the way won't help any of us, including them."

Cuddy switched from chain calling the two numbers to pulling up her address book. Her hands were trembling. "There." She looked back toward the nursery, the maternal side of her mind still functioning somewhere beneath the growing horror. "Don't tell them. . . just say I had to go somewhere unexpectedly. I can't. . . not until we know how they are. The girls are too young to wait through this. They're over thinking we're going to die any time we leave, but we can't tell them that it might actually have . . ." She didn't finish the sentence, instead turning toward the door.

Sandra had copied Marina's number over to her own phone. "They could be perfectly fine. Or just hurt slightly."

"You don't know that," Cuddy snapped. She had reached the door. "Come _on_, Wilson. I'm leaving right now whether you're ready or not."

Wilson had been collecting her coat from the closet, and he also picked up her purse from its usual position next to the desk on his way. She was about to walk out the door without either of them. "Here. Put this on. We'll get there as soon as we can."

Cuddy barely felt him putting her coat on her and didn't even hear his parting words to Sandra. The need to get to the scene possessed her, but once she was in the Volvo, forced to sit still, there was nothing to do but think. She finally gave up on the useless cell phone; her right hand now touched the emerald necklace subconsciously, and her left tightened up until she felt her ring pressing into the adjacent fingers. She couldn't lose House, not after so many near misses already, not now. And Thomas, having barely entered her life but already such a part of it. So much lay ahead for all of them. Surely fate wasn't cruel enough to rip two family members away simultaneously.

But it already had happened to Thomas. Twice.

(H/C)

"Thanks, Ruth. I'll check in later." Jensen hit end. Patterson was at a function but would cut loose immediately and head for the track; Cuddy was going to need her badly. Jensen tried House's cell one more time, knowing by now it was useless. Nothing but voice mail. He sighed and put his cell phone away.

Melissa had been listening to all of this with concern, switching between looking at his face and watching the monitors from the racetrack at Philadelphia. Of course, most of the crowd at the OTB was gathering near those screens now, many simply rubberneckers gawking at the disaster in progress, like an accident they passed on the highway. She couldn't stand watching the breaking news along with that group, and she knew that her fun day out with her husband while Cathy was spending the afternoon with a friend had ended. "Let's go, Michael," she suggested.

He turned toward the doors gladly, and they walked out together. Once they were in the car, he leaned his head back against the driver's seat headrest for a moment, then turned to face her, not switching on the ignition yet. "Yes, I had an ulterior motive for suggesting doing this," he confessed. Jensen actually didn't go to the OTB that often. Melissa was the much bigger racing fan, and she had one uncle who lived and breathed the sport. Many days while she was growing up had been spent at Belmont in the spring or the fall or Saratoga during the summers. But it had been Jensen's idea to go watch the races today, sending good thoughts to House by following the same action that his favorite patient was seeing in person.

"I'd already worked that out before the explosion, Michael. You were so interested in that track out of all of them. But I was still enjoying the day just the same." They had even done pretty well so far, mostly because he had for some unknown reason insisted on betting on a 27-1 long shot named Emily K in the first. "So Dr. House was going to the races today, and you wanted to keep an eye on him long distance so to speak. I get that much. But who is Thornton?"

"I can't tell you that. I'm sorry." She recognized the patient confidentiality wall there and accepted it. "But I shouldn't have . . ."

She reached across the seat to pick up his hand. "First, I don't think we need to talk about this right now. You're too worried, and so am I. Whatever today started out being about, now it's about a friend who is probably in trouble. That's all that matters." He hadn't actually lied to her, simply had withheld his motive. She didn't mind his not telling her everything, but she thought his reasons for holding back were more about fear than confidentiality, and that did worry her. He must still be feeling a little guilty about the recent extended absence in Lexington for House's mother's funeral. They needed to talk, but it could wait.

He gave her hand a grateful squeeze. "Thank you. But what's second? You said that was first."

"Second we'll get to later, but the gist of it is, it's _all right_, Michael." She switched subjects. "The important thing is finding out if Dr. House is okay. You need to go to Philadelphia."

He shook his head. "There's nothing I could do there besides worry along with the others."

"That really helps people sometimes." Her own fear for House was gnawing at her. The man had saved their daughter's life and helped bring them back together as a family. Every time she saw Cathy diligently working on her birthday piece with stubborn determination, she felt a new wave of gratitude for the blue-eyed genius who was so much more than just a generic patient of her husband's by now. "Worrying together is a lot better than worrying separately. In fact, I'd be tempted to go along if it weren't that the people in his life don't know me that well. _You'd_ be a support to them while you all worry together. I would be a stranger. But let me know as soon as you have details, okay?"

Dutiful resistance was crumbling against her persistence. He really was itching to hit the highway, to be there whether he could help or not. "Besides, it would take me three hours to get there." Things would probably be over before he even arrived. He hoped.

"You'd better get started, then," she replied simply. "You can drop me off at home; it's not far out of the way."

He gave in suddenly with a surge of relief, the tension finding outlet in action. He turned the car on, then leaned across for a deep if hurried kiss. "I love you. And we will talk later. I promise."

She nodded. "Once it's all over. But it is okay, Michael."

Feeling relieved a little underneath the acute tension, the old fears about her resenting his job settling, he pulled out of the parking lot.


	15. Chapter 15

H . . . T. . . H. . . T. . .

He tapped the letters out over and over in Morse code against the pipe, using a chunk of debris as his telegraph key. He knew that emergency crews used listening devices to check for locations to search for survivors in debris piles, and hopefully even if they couldn't find the other end of a connecting pipe to pick up the phone, the message would get through and be delivered to its intended target.

Cuddy had to know by now. His fear for her was as large as his fear for them; she had almost self destructed faced with a lesser crisis with the President's attempted assassin. She would be coming, if she wasn't already here. He had lost all track of time, and of course, he had no idea how long he had been unconscious in the first place. But once she got here, the workers sorting out this mess would definitely know of her presence. If they heard him, hopefully they would pass along word to her that he and Thomas were alive, at least. She would still worry, but she would know they weren't dead. All he could do was keep tapping the pipe, the only possible line of communication he had available. The clicks echoed in the dark room.

H. . . T. . . H. . . T. . .

He hoped she had not driven herself to Philadelphia, but even frantic, she would never take their daughters along with her to the scene of this disaster. No, if she found out somehow, probably the news, she would call for an emergency sitter. Top selections for that were Wilson/Sandra and Marina, and any of them should realize that she would need help herself, too. The support system should be closing up around her, and surely somebody else would drive here.

House was sitting propped against the wall of the bathroom next to a urinal, tapping on the unbroken water pipe behind it. He had managed to drag Thomas the couple of feet required as well, and as he tapped, the other hand occasionally checked the old man's pulse or rested for a moment against the bandage. It had taken a long time to get the bleeding stopped, but he had succeeded, and the final T-shirt had been used to make a bandage, tying it clear around Thomas' head with the sleeve folded under at that spot to keep light pressure against the gash. The shirt remained dry, but the old man had not yet even stirred.

The betting clerk was in dire need of attention, but his case was beyond first aid. After he was sure the bleeding had stopped, House had crawled over to the other man in the dark to check him over by feel as best he could. The clerk had been tossed into the urinal; he still had been standing fully upright at the moment of the explosion, which House and Thomas had not, and he had hit the porcelain with a lot of force, breaking it. House was sure he had a depressed skull fracture. There was water flowing across the floor in that corner, but as near as House could tell, feeling the man over and then sniffing his fingers to distinguish water from blood, he wasn't majorly bleeding anywhere, although he did have several cuts and abrasions. House had propped the man up against the far wall, knowing that elevating his head should help, even if inadequately, against rising incracranial pressure. But this one would need surgery. He also seemed to have a broken wrist, but that was the least of his concerns.

Once the clerk was tended to, House made the laborious crawl back the few feet to Thomas. His leg was absolutely screaming, giving its opinion in no uncertain terms of crawling through rubble. House knew he would barely be able to move for days once they got out of this. His ribs weren't much better. Once he made it back, he had rested there for several minutes, gasping for breath, feeling the sweat soaking his shirt.

When he felt a little more stable, he had used his own jacket to fold into a heavy pad at his side, tucked that under his left elbow, and held it tight for as much support as he could give his ribs. Then he relocated Thomas' left shoulder. That had been agony. Trying to save his left side and avoid puncturing a lung, he had no choice but to use his right leg somewhat to brace with in getting the force required. Of course, they could do this at the hospital tonight, but the longer the joint remained out, the greater the soft tissue damage and inflammatory response. Fortunately, it hadn't been a hard one as relocations go, but when he finished, House had let himself slip trembling to the floor alongside his father, and there were tears of pure pain running down his face. He wasn't sure how many minutes went by as he desperately massaged the thigh with his right hand and fought passing out.

As soon as the storm of pain had retreated enough for clear thought, he took some extra Vicodin, knowing it wouldn't be enough, and then did another exam of Thomas' shoulder by feel. Nicely back in place, and as near as he could tell, the repaired biceps tendon which had been torn years ago remained intact. The trademark "Popeye" deformity signifying a rupture wasn't present, at least. Hopefully he would only have a sore shoulder for a while and wouldn't need another surgery.

One acerbic remark hurled in the direction of the former bathroom entrance finished his professional obligations as a physician to the crisis. "Need any medical help over there, you damned lunatic? Good, didn't think so. Rest in peace - or more likely in pieces."

Then he had crawled to the nearest sidewall, finding an intact pipe and a piece of debris to tap with. With his spot selected, he returned to fetch the old man. Now he sat against the wall, tapping away and keeping an eye - or rather, a hand - regularly on Thomas.

The building still moaned occasionally, and twice, small pieces of the ceiling above them had come down. Even worse, there was once what sounded like a snapping sound from _below_ them, and an ominous vibration shuddered through the floor. House sized up their situation. They were on the second level, with one below and several above them. Significant if hopefully localized structural damage on this floor, definitely affecting the floor above, and possibly extending through the beams down. If this whole section of the building collapsed into an accordion, they were goners. House had a sinking feeling that stabilizing the surrounding floors to prevent that might take quite a while before the rescue crews could start to dig through the walls to them. Fortunately, a bathroom was one of the most solidly constructed of rooms, but listening, he knew that the debris around them was unstable. Someone had at least shut off the water while he was getting the clerk propped against the wall.

Thomas. His mind kept coming back to that thought, and he would shy away, looking for something else, but it was unavoidable. The old man had saved him. He had saved _them_ first of all by driving the force of the explosion back into the passageway. That bomb set off much closer to the clerk, as the nutjob had intended, would have blown all of them to smithereens. But in the same reflex, instinctive action, Thomas had then tried to shelter him with his own body. That couldn't possibly have been staged; there wasn't time to think of appearances or scoring points, and for all the old man knew, he wouldn't even survive to benefit from his altruism.

Did Thomas actually love him to that extent? And had he all along?

House shifted, swore at the bite of his ribs, and tried to change mental topics by imagining himself as the ER doctor when they came in tonight (surely it _had_ to at least be tonight, couldn't be dragged into tomorrow). CT scans of the head all around - he couldn't deny that he had been knocked out himself, and with his history of two major head injuries, it was a reasonable precaution after the bomb even if he hadn't. The clerk would go straight from there into surgery, elevating the fracture, hopefully without too much pressure built up underneath. It wasn't a whopping hole in the side of his head at least, hopefully not fatal, but it was depressed somewhat, and it would need repair. For the clerk, time was an enemy right now. The longer surgery was delayed, the worse the prognosis.

Thomas had stable vitals, and House still couldn't find signs of internal bleeding. Abdomen soft. The gash was major, but there did not seem to be a depressed area beneath it, not like the clerk's crunched skull. Maybe all he needed there was some stitches, and he would get by with nothing more than a neat scar to fascinate the grandkids. Hopefully. House was still itching for that CT, and the prolonged unconsciousness worried him. Thomas would also need scans of his shoulder for any damage other than dislocation.

House mentally ordered himself a chest x-ray. Not much you could do for broken ribs except strap them up, though. Assuming they hadn't punctured anything, but while breathing was difficult, it wasn't _that _difficult. He also added antispasmodics and stronger pain meds to his shopping list, although he wouldn't let them knock him down for the count without knowing Cuddy was okay and not shutting down mentally. Thinking of extra meds for his leg, House took a moment to reach into his pants and remove his current heat patch he had put on that morning right before they left. It might be helping the pain minimally, but heat was the wrong prescription with acute insult to the tissues.

There was also the fact that all three of them had several open cuts and scrapes, Thomas the most but the others with their share, and they were on the floor of a public restroom. Bathroom germs plus industrial cleaners plus an added serving of shattered wall dust and debris as the cherry on top. House the ER physician was itching to start them all on antibiotics ASAP.

The silence was getting oppressive, broken only by his tapped letters. He had never been afraid of the dark; life with real horrors left no space for imagined ones. But he wished he could hear sounds of rescue. Or conversation. _Something_ to make it seem less like they were forgotten by the rest of the planet in here. The protesting creaks of the tortured building didn't count. His growing worry about Cuddy and about their situation was maddening because there was nothing more he could do. He was helpless.

He started talking, just for a change in the scene. "I wonder who won the third? I bet on #7, and you bet on #8." They had made their hasty bets while in line watching Leather Jacket. "Neither one of them was high odds, though, so even if #7 got it, you're probably still on top for the day because of that damned long shot. And they would have cancelled the rest of the races thanks to the bomb, so that's it. You win, old man. But you still cheated. That was your wife's strategy, not yours." He rested a hand against the bandage. It was still dry. "You owe me a cane, too. We'll make the track stand good for the shirts and Rachel's model horse. If they had listened to us instead of trying to investigate us first, they might have been up here in time to catch him. Course, he still might have set himself off with them. But _we_ wouldn't be stuck in here. That much is their fault." He paused, taking a few more shallow breaths. Damn it, his ribs hurt. So did his leg. "I hope Wilson has the sense to drive . . ."

He broke off as the head shifted slightly beneath his hand. "Decide to join me after all? About time." His sarcastic tone was belied by the gentleness of his touch as he reached down for a wrist. The pulse was more reactive now, and he heard Thomas' breathing catch as he shifted again, the movement stronger this time. He was waking up.


	16. Chapter 16

Thomas stirred again, coughed, and then his right hand lifted, reaching for his temple. House caught him firmly by the wrist, arresting the motion. "Are you all right, Greg?" Thomas asked. His voice was weak and shaky, nothing like his usual tones, and he sounded every year of 75 and several beyond that, but he was _awake_.

Relief flooded through House, and he was startled himself at the force of its current. "Damn it, James Bond, you are _retired_. That means you don't _do_ crap like this anymore," he snapped.

"Actually, I always tried to avoid crap like this even back then," Thomas replied. "Are you all right?"

"Fine. Just some nicks and scrapes." The skepticism in the darkness was palpable, and House could hear his own shallow breathing. "I think I cracked some ribs on the left," he admitted. They were broken, not cracked; he was positive. But hopefully Thomas would accept that alone as the cause for anything he noticed. House changed the subject quickly. "Tell me what all hurts, old man."

Silence for a few moments of inventory. "My head," Thomas started. House realized that he still had his father firmly by the wrist, although Thomas wasn't resisting the grip. He let go.

"Don't reach up there. You tried to scalp yourself, or a piece of the wall did, and it took me forever to get the bleeding stopped. We don't want to start it up again." Thomas reached up as forbidden, of course, but he was careful that time, barely brushing the T-shirt bandage with his fingers. "Are you dizzy?"

"How on earth would I know at the moment? I'm not even sure which direction is up. Please tell me the lights are off, Greg."

"What's the matter? Afraid of the dark?"

"No, I'm afraid of going blind. It's a random nightmare I've a couple of times in life." Thomas admitted it without reservation, and House heard the genuine tension beneath his voice. The atmosphere really _was_ pressing on him. Still, that hadn't been his first question on waking up unable to see.

House gave in. "It's not just you. The lights went off a few minutes after I woke up. We're sealed up here in the dark together."

Thomas let out a deep breath. "Good."

"Good? I can think of a few more accurate words to describe this situation."

A soft chuckle. "So can I. But it's a relief, all the same. And you're alive. Things could be a lot worse."

As if it heard, the building creaked, and another small slide of ceiling bits came down onto the large debris pile to their left. "Don't say that too loudly," House cautioned.

"What about the clerk?"

"He's alive. If you hear somebody breathing over to the right, that's him. He's got a fractured skull, though. Don't think he'll be joining us any time soon." House shifted again, trying to find a minutely more comfortable position for his leg. That was a joke at the moment. Comfort wasn't even a goal; he settle for any improvement. "What else hurts?"

"My shoulder is aching. Lots of other little places, feels like cuts stinging, but my head hurts the worst."

"You dislocated your left shoulder in the blast," House told him.

Thomas reached over promptly, feeling around it, though he had to already know. A dislocated joint hurt like hell while it was actively out. "You put it back. You shouldn't have done that, Greg."

He heard the concern, the specific _physical_ concern, and pushed back immediately. No, they _weren't_ going to go there. "_Any_ doctor should be able to relocate a simple dislocation. Just popped it back in; nothing to it." The skeptical darkness was even heavier than a minute ago. "I don't think you tore the tendon again." Thomas ran his left arm gingerly through a range of motion, testing it. It was definitely sore, but it seemed functional. "You said back in December that you weren't on any medications except ibuprofen once in a while. That still true?"

"Yes."

"Are you allergic to anything?"

"Penicillin," Thomas replied. "I hope I didn't hurt you too badly, Greg. I apologize for jumping on you like that. I knew it would strain your . . ."

House cut the sentence off, a solid steel door slamming across the conversation. "I am _FINE," _he snapped. He turned his head away, not that it made any difference. Eye contact in here was nonexistent anyway. Bad enough to have his leg relentlessly gnawing into his thoughts, stealing as much of his breath as the ribs were. He was _not_ going to discuss his leg with Thomas. He was glad his father had still been out earlier when House had nearly passed out after setting his shoulder. At least he had only had to deal with the pain then, not pity.

The shattered bathroom was quiet other than the Morse taps. H . . . T. . . H. . . T. . . House tried to mentally follow the progress of the emergency workers, and he was deeply worried about Cuddy. She had to already be here. Surely the crews were coming, and this living tomb would be opened before much longer.

He wasn't sure how many minutes passed, but he was suddenly certain that there were far too many of them. Thomas lay completely silent and still. House grabbed his good shoulder and squeezed. "Hey, don't fall asleep on me, old man. You have to stay awake." Thomas shifted beneath his touch, but there was a short delay before he reacted. "We need to keep talking."

"Those taps. You think they'll hear you?" Thomas asked. Again, House was struck by how weak he sounded.

"They use listening devices. They should hear me." The building groaned above them. "I think they're going to have to stabilize the structure before starting to dig for us, though."

"How long has it been?"

"Not sure. I lost track." With being knocked out himself. And his leg's fit after setting Thomas' shoulder. And just the situation. He was annoyed at himself for not having the precise answer. With it, he would better be able to track Cuddy mentally. Thomas didn't answer, and House poked him again after a minute, saying the first thing that came to his lips. "I hope Wilson or somebody at least is with Lisa and drove her down here. She'll be going crazy."

That did draw a response, although the weakness of the old man's voice and movements was still marked compared to his baseline. He tried to sit up, and House let him prop himself gingerly against the wall. It was a laborious process and obviously an effort for him, but he made it. "Poor Lisa. Hopefully the crews will tell her they hear us, and she'll know we're alive. She's always been a worrier, hasn't she?"

"Yes, but it's a little more complicated than that." He considered, but Cuddy was the one calling the old man family already anyway, and everybody in her circle plus the whole staff of PPTH knew about her meltdown last year. Her therapy since was private, but the catalyst for it wasn't. And they _had_ to talk about something. He had to keep Thomas awake and responsive. "Did you read the papers at the beginning of last June? About the President being sick?"

"I wasn't following the news," Thomas replied. "Still in Europe."

"The President came to Princeton to speak at graduation at the University. And while he was there. . ." House went on into the tale, pausing regularly for a response, keeping the old man with him.


	17. Chapter 17

"But why aren't you _doing _something?" Cuddy demanded.

The police spokesman hated his job some days. This was definitely one of them. He would rather hold ten press conferences with pestering media than face one family member during an evolving crisis when he had no definite news to deliver. Not knowing could be more effective torture than any ancient device from the dark ages. Furthermore, in his unfortunately lengthy experience at this job, he'd witnessed that loved ones varied quite a bit in their responses to being stuck waiting. He tended to mentally group them loosely into three types: Shocked into numbness, stoic though worried, and wanting to supervise or at minimum participate. This woman fell into the worst category. She didn't just want _him_ to be doing something; she longed to head in physically herself, rubble and all, and to hell with the danger. The other woman was the retreat into shock type, but Lisa Cuddy-House was interested in _action_. Immediately. Directly. The officer was glad of the man with her, who was also obviously anxious but steadying her at least somewhat.

"Ma'am," he started again. "They are working on things as fast as they can." He was careful not to say at any point, "I understand," or "I know what you're going through," phrases that some people in crisis objected to, and indeed, he had never had a loved one trapped in a collapsed building himself. He sympathized, but he could not know exactly what she was feeling, so he made no claim to. Even members of the same family confronting the same disaster did so with individual variations.

"The first responders had to pull back after getting the easily accessible victims. The explosion was on the second level, and the third level above that is damaged with the floor sloping. There are also major support walls visibly cracked between one and two and between three and four. They were afraid of triggering a collapse by starting to dig." He didn't add that the building could be heard shifting and settling. That section of the grandstand was a chain of dominoes waiting to be pushed. He was grateful that whatever explosive used, though powerful, had been concentrated and that it had gone off during a race. There were some injuries on two and three, even without counting any unreachables yet, but the injury total could have been a lot greater.

"We think your husband and Mr. Thornton were in the bathroom on two. The explosion took place in the entrance passageway, but it's quite possible if they were farther into the room that there is a pocket of space still intact there beyond the main rubble pile. Bathrooms are very solid." And of course, he countered mentally, if they had _not_ been quite a bit farther on into the room, then they were underneath that pile instead of beyond it. If so, they were almost certainly already dead, but he'd cross that notification bridge only if he had to. "If we push too fast and trigger another collapse, we would only decrease their chances. The crews did the best thing they could by backing off and calling for the structural analysis team. That team just arrived, and they've gone in. They're the experts at this, and they will know the best way to get in to them. But it has to be done carefully, step by step, or we could do more harm than good. We _will_ reach everybody" He was certain of that. Eventually, yes, they would dig through. He just hoped the captives were alive in there. But setting off a secondary collapse wouldn't help anyone, victims or responders.

Wilson touched Cuddy's arm tentatively. "They're doing their best, Cuddy," he said. "They'll get there, even if House has some choice comments about it taking so long once they break through." He was fighting his own worry, trying to keep on an even keel for her.

Any dwindling hope Wilson had clutched that a cell phone blackout alone might explain his friend's silence had exploded itself at the first road block. Cuddy had been ready to drive straight through all barricades right up to the track, reminding him wistfully of House hitting the accelerator on the Volvo on the funeral trip. But after he had stopped, over her protests, and the first officer approached the window, she had jumped in even before he could speak. The instant she used House's name in her demand for access, the officer's expression changed. The police working this scene _knew_ House's name, Wilson realized with a sinking feeling, and this recognition had nothing to do with Patrick Chandler. The authorities already knew he was among those in trouble.

They had been passed on and directed through a few other road blocks to a van in the parking lot that was obviously some kind of waiting area. Besides the official, there was one woman there who was apparently named Kate Parker. Wilson hadn't had a chance to explore for further details so far, having his hands full, but she looked every bit as bad as Cuddy. She was sitting quietly, sipping a cup of coffee, but he could tell she didn't even feel it burning her tongue.

Stalled temporary on demanding faster action, Cuddy switched to her second main theme of the last several minutes. "So the two of them actually _told_ you something was going to happen before the bomb went off, and you didn't believe them?"

"They went to track security," the policeman said, carefully distinguishing himself from track security. He was annoyed about this point himself. Verifying the source, yes, but security should have moved on the tip at the same time instead of simply waiting. "Track security forwarded IDs on to the department and wanted a check on them. As I understand it, they did intend to take some action once they were sure the source checked out. The explosion happened before they received results and could go after him."

Cuddy wished she were talking to track security directly. She made a vow to herself that she would once all the dust had settled and she knew House and Thomas were safe.

Kate Parker spoke up abruptly. "They tried to warn my husband themselves after that. He was on the phone to me, and he mentioned them. I'm so sorry." She shuddered, remembering those parting words, her sentence. _You get to live forever knowing that he's dead because of you._ Not only her husband but this poor woman's people, too, who had only been trying to help.

Wilson prided himself on his bedside manner, but this was getting too much. "If your husband is with Dr. House, ma'am, that's good news. House has nine lives. He'll get out of this somehow." But how many lives had been used up already?

At that moment, to his relief, the cavalry arrived. Very atypical cavalry in the form of a woman even smaller than Cuddy, a mousy-looking waif, someone easy to overlook until he noticed her eyes. They were as vivid green as House's were vivid blue, and nobody after meeting them could ever again categorize their owner as ordinary. Small or not, this woman had ample strength, intelligence, and personality. Wilson had no idea who she was, but she was so unfailingly competent as she entered the back of the van, so obviously not just another family member joining the waiting line, that he was relieved. Here was backup, in whatever form. He wasn't the only one trying to keep things stable now.

Cuddy turned toward the sound of her entry and then stared. "Dr. Patterson."

Patterson dropped into the seat on the other side of her, with Cuddy now framed between her and Wilson. "What do they know so far?" she asked, gripping Cuddy's hand but going for logistics, for details, not for immediate reassurance.

_Patterson?_ Wilson had not known the name of Cuddy's shrink; House referred to her only as Cuddy's shrink with extra emphasis on the word, as if enjoying a private joke, and looking at her, Wilson could for the first time appreciate it. But watching their body language, her identity was obvious without introduction. Jensen must have called her. Wilson relaxed a little, and then, as he listened to Cuddy's report, his own worry surged up again, eagerly filling in the emotional space. The officer ducked out of the van, recognizing competence and familiarity when he saw it, and left them some privacy for the moment.

Cuddy finished her summary and then looked straight at Patterson with that familiar challenging tilt to her chin. "And don't you dare tell me that everything is going to be okay," she concluded. "You _can't_ know that."

"I wouldn't say that to you," Patterson replied evenly. "It might not be okay. My late husband was a firefighter." Cuddy jumped, her attention abruptly caught from the middle of the crisis. "He was trapped in a collapsed building once. He was trying to rescue someone, and there was a secondary collapse that pinned him down. They had to dig them out. He made it that time, just bruises and cuts, but I'll never forget sitting there for hours outside waiting for news. And I'll never forget the friends who waited there with me."

Cuddy's shoulders slumped, the painful tension shifting, as for the first time since getting the news, she reached out and gave herself permission to feel instead of just driving herself forward, and Patterson wrapped her tightly in a hug.


	18. Chapter 18

A/N: Thanks to whozit the Grand Canyon tightrope walker for that image. Personally, I think the guy is nuts, but the metaphor was irresistible for House in this situation.

And thanks to all my readers. Enjoy!

(H/C)

Wilson re-entered the van, putting away his cell phone. The initial cell phone blackout at the track and casino had been lifted now that bomb-sniffing dogs had made a few sweeps through the rest of the facility. Cuddy, Patterson, and Kate were sitting together now, and Cuddy looked up quickly. Wilson answered the question before she could even voice it.

"The girls are okay," he reassured her. "They were a little worried when they woke up, but they accepted that you had to go somewhere." It happened sometimes with work, after all. "Marina is there now along with Sandra, and everything is under control." Cuddy gave a small sigh of relief, glad that things were under control _somewhere_ today at least. "I also called to update Jensen," Wilson continued. "He's coming down, probably a little over an hour away now."

"Good." Not that Jensen could do much, but he was good company as long as they were stuck with this maddening waiting, and he would want first hand news as soon as possible himself. She knew how much he cared about House by now. She turned to Patterson. "I told Sandra not to tell the girls." Her tone mingled stubborn refusal with a hint of a question beneath it, and Patterson nodded.

"Not now. Two and a half and three and a half are too young for a vigil like this, especially without either parent there during it. You will have to tell them when it's over and we have a firm outcome, but we can cross that bridge when we come to it."

Kate stirred. She was still obviously in shock, her eyes horrified, but Patterson had been trying to draw her out and get her to talk a little. Now she spoke up. "You have young daughters?"

"Yes," Cuddy confirmed, softening slightly into a brief smile even through the worry.

Kate shivered. "I am _so_ sorry," she repeated. "I never thought . . . I always thought if Dale decided to do something, he would come after _me_. Why would he do this? He must have killed himself along with them." The story about her ex was coming out in erratic dribbles so far, many blanks still left to be filled, but none of the others had pushed her for the background.

Patterson gripped her arm tightly. "We don't know that they're dead yet." She modified that after a moment. "Except for your ex. If he was wearing a bomb directly attached to himself and it did that much to the building, _he's_ got to be dead. Which is good; the others don't need to be dealing with him now, whatever their condition is. But we don't know about them."

"But the building . . ." Kate protested. Wilson sat down on the other side of her.

"You said you heard him on the phone calling out to you in the background," Patterson reminded her. _"In the background_. Not right at your husband's elbow, and that was only seconds before the explosion. The officer said the bomb went off in the entry passage. If the others were clear inside the room, they've got a chance, and it's not likely that all four of them were standing packed right together in the entry. There _had_ to be at least some distance between."

At that moment, the police spokesman returned, his stride brisk, and they all came to attention. His whole expression proclaimed that he had news even before his voice did, although he spoke promptly. "They've heard something while doing a sound scan of the rubble," he announced. "The letters H and T in Morse code, over and over. Somebody is tapping that constantly on a pipe."

Cuddy sagged under the rush of relief. "I _knew_ he would find a way to communicate," she said. He was alive. He was _alive_. And so was Thomas.

Wilson was smiling, too, but Kate wilted a little. Patterson was the first to notice. "That isn't necessarily a statement that your husband is dead. Dr. House would be trying to keep it as abbreviated as he could, just hoping anybody would hear. It's a call for help, not a complete list of survivors." She was indeed certain that the omission of Kate's husband wasn't an intentional message from House, although the reasons were more complicated than she admitted to Kate. She knew that House, assuming he was alive and coherent, would be every bit as worried about Cuddy as she was about him. The memory of last year with the President would be chewing him up, and he had to feel totally helpless himself, waiting for news of a disaster just like they were, only in reverse. Patterson was impressed that he had remembered to add an indication for Thornton; more couldn't be expected under the circumstances.

"Hopefully we'll have more details soon," the officer continued. "They're going to try to make contact. This is a long shot, and no guarantees that it will work, but they've sent for a motorized plumber's snake. If they can manage to drive it into or at least close to that pipe that he's on, they can switch the motor off and on. It should make an audible whine for him if it's close enough and even make the pipe hum a little. That would be their telegraph key, and they can read his responses with the high-tech listening equipment they're using to scan the pile. Does Dr. House know all of the letters of Morse code?"

Wilson spread his hands. "I've never had a conversation with him by Morse, but I'm sure he's fluent in that, too. He speaks everything else."

Cuddy was trapped between the prospect of direct communication and a new worry. "They need to be careful not to vibrate the building too much trying that," she warned.

"They know that, Cuddy," Wilson assured her. "They wouldn't try it if they didn't think it was possible without triggering a full collapse."

The officer nodded. "This team is expert on damaged buildings. They're getting the smallest snake they can, diameter a lot less than the pipes it will be in, so that will cut vibration. And they will advance slowly into the damaged area and monitor all the time. The instant the building gives them a hint it can't take it, they'll abort the attempt. But Dr. House - assuming it is Dr. House - has been tapping heavily on the pipe probably for quite a while already, and he's creating as much vibration as they will with this, and the building is tolerating that. If they can talk to him, they can get a lot of valuable information from his side. It would really help them to know exactly what the situation is in there."

"And," Patterson said softly to the two women, "it would let everyone in there know that help is coming."

"What's the situation with the building?" Wilson asked.

"They're analyzing the data now," the officer replied. "This is going to be tricky stabilizing it enough to dig in, but they will solve the puzzle. They're the best."

Kate was still chewing her lower lip, but Patterson could almost see the soft thrill of new knowledge coursing through Cuddy's veins at each heart beat. They were alive. Whatever else, even if it took hours to reach them, they were alive. All at once, there was renewed hope.

(H/C)

"So even though he had come in to complain, he wound up making a donation after all, only more than he ever would have planned on in the first place." House finished the latest Cuddy at work story and paused for a response.

Thomas gave an appreciative chuckle. "She really is quite a woman."

"Oh, she is. I knew it the first time . . ." His voice trailed off into silence.

"You said once you'd known her a long time," Thomas stated, not an outright question but the hint of one.

"We met in college, but it didn't work out then," House replied shortly.

He would never forget meeting her. To that point in his post-John freedom phase, enjoying the college experience in every possible way and the nearly unbearable relief of being away from home, he had thought sexy was the most anyone could shoot for in a woman. She, though, had all that and even more than others physically plus a delightful spice of personality besides. She not only attracted him; she _intrigued_ him. Their one night together had been the first time in his life he had ever allowed himself to consider a long term relationship or think that one containing him might work. To hell with John's predictions that nobody would ever be able to stand him and his entire relational future was doomed. That night, together, the world had seemed at their feet.

Then had come the news the very next day that he was being kicked out. He had actually been able to hear John laughing. It seemed like the world's confirmation, backing up John's opinion, squashing that daring hope back down again. He had been deluding himself to think a future with anyone but especially with her was possible. It would never work. Furthermore, she deserved far better than life with him. So he slunk away with his tail between his legs like a coward, and while he had thought of her in the intervening years at times, it was always wondering whom she had wound up with and mentally reciting how much better that partner must be. _She_, now, would have made it work. Lisa Cuddy would no doubt be as successful in love as she was in everything else. She was the one with a future. He had been stunned years later to find her still single when their paths crossed again.

His mind snapped back to the present, the heavy darkness and the occasional groans and sighs of the building. Keep talking, he reminded himself. The medical part of his mind had been spinning away in full differential during their conversation. There was some degree of concussion, he thought, but it could have been much worse. The old man was perfectly lucid, although he had a tendency to drift toward sleep any time House left him alone for a few minutes.

The weakness that filled every word and every line of the slumped posture against the wall was eating away at House's medical instincts more. Of course, that could go right along with a concussion, but his instincts thought there was something else to it. Remembering that red river, which had been flowing enough to bleed over both of them before he woke up and which had saturated two sweatshirts after that before he got it stopped, he was now wondering about blood loss. Hard to quantify in that early light, and it had been still bleeding for a while after the lights went out. Also, damn it, he had to admit that even at the beginning, he hadn't been trying to measure exact mL. He had been too intent on stopping it. But it was quite possible that Thomas needed transfusion of a unit or two. House the ER doctor added hemoglobin to his list of tests.

He nudged Thomas' shoulder gently as they sat side by side against the wall. "How are you feeling, old man? And tell me the truth, damn it."

The reply was slightly delayed. "Tired. And my head hurts. Lots of other points aching but not too bad."

"In that order?" House demanded. "Tired comes before the headache?" He checked his pulse again. Still steady but a little fast. The T-shirt seemed to still be dry.

Thomas sighed. "I'm all right, Greg. How are you doing?"

"Fine," House replied. He felt like he was walking a tightrope across a canyon of pain, trying to keep his balance, occasionally swaying slightly between the influence of the ribs on his left and the leg on his right and then regaining equilibrium. One false step, and he would plummet. To make things worse, his hands were getting tired of nonstop Morse, even with the piano exercise that had strengthened him.

"I can take over the tapping for a while if you need me to," Thomas said, annoyingly reading his mind.

"You know Morse code?"

"Yes."

House gritted his teeth silently. If they ever got out of here, he vowed, he would extract an unabridged list of every single language the old man spoke just to find the one that was missing, the one that was his alone. He ignored the offer of help. "They've got to hear us soon. It has to have been a few hours." It seemed like a few years, but yes, he was confident in saying hours plural now, even if he had lost track of time.

Keep talking. Keep talking. "How did you meet Emily?" he asked. "You said earlier today that was a night of bad luck turned good."

Thomas laughed softly. "I was on a date. _Not _with her. I don't even remember that one's name. All curves but nothing in between the ears; I was bored with her before we'd been out half an hour. The first date with her, of course. I never would have asked her for a second one, but I was in the Marines and in my early 20s, and a chance at anything female was worth checking out. I had a pass for the evening, and I borrowed a friend's car and took that date to the movies. We went to the drive-in, but she was making the most idiotic comments, couldn't even see half of the plot points that were going on. Even trying to neck with her was boring. I went to get us popcorn, and while I was walking back, a downpour started. Then she griped about the soggy popcorn. Never said anything about me getting soaked; it was like she thought I'd planned the rain to ruin her snack. Then the movie reel snapped. Still pouring down rain. She asked me to take her home, so we left. On the way back, the car broke down."

House laughed himself; he couldn't help it. He'd _known _nights like that. The laugh changed into a hiss as his broken ribs stabbed him, and Thomas stopped quickly. House jumped in before he could ask. "Go on, old man. So where did Emily come in?"

"I couldn't get the car to start again at all. Finally left it there with her in it and walked for help - no cell phones. Of course, we were in between towns. It was about five miles, pitch black and raining. Every now and then, a car would whiz by me and splash me, but nobody saw or at least nobody stopped." Thomas paused himself for a moment, and his voice was softer as he went on. "I finally came to a diner, and I went in to use their phone. I must have looked like a drowned rat by then, and there were mud splashes from a few cars, too. Emily was working the grill. And she looked up when I came in, and . . ."

"And your eyes met, and birds sang, and all that," House suggested, trying to distance himself from the pain. The tightrope beneath his feet was quivering.

"No. She looked at me for a minute, and then she laughed and asked what ditch I had rolled out of. Only she wasn't laughing _at_ me. I could tell. She was laughing with me. I wasn't at first, but I joined in soon enough. She was irresistible when she laughed. She let me use the phone, and I had a burger while waiting for a friend to show up and drive me back to the car to rescue whateverhernamewas. And we talked. I gave her my number and said maybe we could see each other again some time when I wasn't on the date from hell if I hadn't scared her off, and she said she'd enjoy going out with someone who got his disasters out of the way beforehand. It went from there. But by the time my friend arrived and we got back to that broken-down car, I couldn't even remember the other one's name." Thomas straightened up a little. "What's that?"

House, balancing medical differential and pain and interest in the past, was a few seconds later hearing it. A low whine, like a very small drill or a very large mosquito. It seemed to be approaching in the wall behind them. It would hum for a moment, then pause, then hum, then pause. He put a hand on the pipe, and it was quivering very slightly, rhythmically. Then the pattern of that intermittent pulse registered, and his smile widened. "I think somebody out there finally picked up the damned phone."


	19. Chapter 19

Kate's best friend and Jensen arrived at the track almost simultaneously, sorting their way through the road blocks together. As they entered the back of the large waiting van, Kate looked up and started to stand. Her friend made it to her first and lifted her the rest of the way into a hug. "I'm sorry it took me so long to get here," she said. Kate crumpled against her, and Patterson and Wilson both felt a surge of relief that one of her own people had made it to share the vigil.

Cuddy had been staring out the window toward the track as if her vision might penetrate the building clear to her husband and Thomas within. Other than the emergency vehicles congregated outside, the huge building looked deceptively normal. She didn't notice Jensen's entrance until he spoke to Wilson. "Any more news?"

"Not since my last call. No word on whether the snake is working yet."

"It's good that they're going slowly." Jensen's usual unflappability hadn't made the trip with him; he was obviously very worried, although still thinking through the situation.

Cuddy stood up and gave him a hug. "Thanks for driving down. At least we know they're alive now." She gave a sidelong guilty glance a second later at Kate, whose was deep in low conversation with her friend.

"He's nothing if not resilient," Jensen said, trying to reassure her. "And Thornton is, too."

Wilson abruptly was seized by a giggle, the stress taking over. He choked it back but not before Cuddy glared at him. "_What_ is funny?" she demanded.

"I was just thinking, the whole point of today was for them to spend time together," he said. "Well, this is _one_ way to accomplish that. Why should House do something like everybody else?"

"This is _not_ what they meant," Cuddy snapped. She sat back down, staring out at the building again.

At that moment, the police spokesman re-entered the van. "We've made contact," he announced. He immediately had everybody's full attention. He spoke to Kate first. "Your husband is alive." She sagged back into her seat. "He's unconscious, and Dr. House thinks he might have a fractured skull, but his vitals are stable." New worry warred with hope in her face, and she lightly touched her stomach. For the first time, Wilson gave a closer, medical look and realized that Kate was pregnant, just a few months along, barely beginning to show. It still took imagination to see it at this stage. House, he thought, remembering Sandra, would have noticed hours ago.

The officer turned to Cuddy. "Dr. House says he's a little banged up but not too bad." Wilson, Cuddy, and Jensen all three groaned skeptically in unison. That was a Housism if they'd ever heard one, probably manufactured for Cuddy's benefit. The effort was wasted, as she wasn't fooled for a second. "Mr. Thornton has a bad cut on his head, but the bleeding has stopped, and he's awake and coherent. The team is getting more details now on their situation, but he says they have a fairly good-sized space. He wanted to get word to you as soon as possible."

Cuddy sighed. "A little banged up," she repeated in disgust. "Damn it, Greg. And Thomas is 75. Did he actually say a _bad_ cut?"

The officer nodded. "His words. A bad cut."

Cuddy chewed on her lower lip, thinking. House wouldn't have added that adjective unless it were a _really_ bad cut.

"They're both at least awake and coherent," Jensen reassured her. "And they know rescue is on the way now." He turned to the officer. "How's it coming with the building?"

"They've starting bracing strategic sections, but it's a slow process. Too tricky to hurry up with it. This is probably going to take another hour or two." Cuddy and Kate sighed together. The officer's earpiece squawked at him just then. "Excuse me." He turned away, exiting the van.

"Just think, Cuddy, he's not only alive but able to lie to us. They're definitely in touch with House." Wilson squeezed her arm.

Jensen sat down next to Patterson. "Thank you, Ruth," he said.

She leaned over and hugged him. "I'm glad I was close enough to pitch in."

"Are you okay?" he asked softly, not mentioning her husband outright, but he clearly knew about that other collapsed building. She nodded.

Watching them, Wilson suddenly wondered how they knew each other clear from their separate states. They were on a first name basis, and while their body language wasn't that of lovers, not even past lovers, they were definitely friends who held a lot of mutual respect and affection for each other. "How did you two meet?" he asked.

"In med school," Patterson replied. "We had almost every class on the schedule together in psychiatry. In fact, we got a little competitive at it." Jensen grinned, abruptly looking much younger than his usual serious self. "I was older, since psych was my second field, and he was young and gung ho at it, but we found out we studied well together. We sharpened each other, challenged each other to think of the material in ways we might not have alone. And then we'd compare test and paper scores after the fact."

"Who came out on top more often?" Wilson wondered.

"I did," they answered together, then laughed.

Cuddy looked a bit wistful, remembering meeting House in college, and once again, she looked out the window, her eyes magnetically drawn back to the distant building. _A little banged up._ She started mentally forming her scathing response to that statement and hoped she would get the opportunity to deliver every word of it to him once this was all over and they were healing. And how bad exactly was that bad cut? She sighed again, and Wilson and Patterson, on each side of her, tightened their hands, just being there, waiting together.

(H/C)

House gritted his teeth as he started his next reply. The intense focus required to hold a full conversation this way was getting harder, the pain demanding progressively more of his attention and not wanting to leave space for Morsing. Also, the physical strain of the taps had increased. He had been unable to distinguish a long tap from a short one against the pipe, so he had used a tap-scrape, striking the pipe and then sliding down it an inch or two, to form his dash. But now that they were into full words, more and more dashes were interspersed with the dots, and every time now that he did that scrape, no matter how carefully he tried to isolate the motion to only his wrist, it ricocheted back along his whole body. Whoever was running the on-off switch on the snake didn't have that problem and could make long and short distinct just fine for dashes and dots, and their side of the conversation hummed along briskly, while his responses slowly grew more laborious.

He had insisted on sending a status message to Cuddy first thing, even before answering further questions about the bathroom. He downplayed his and Thomas' injuries as much as he could for her sake, but he was careful to include the cut. Thomas had bled freely across both of them, and once they were out of here, he didn't want Cuddy having a heart attack when she first saw them in the ambulance. They probably looked like they'd walked off the movie set of a horror film. Stopped, he pounded out carefully on the pipe. The bleeding has _stopped_. He is coherent. Hopefully she would take time to plug that in and realize that any blood she saw was just left over from earlier.

The worry and the pain swirled together. He could tell he was starting to sweat more; it made his various nicks and scrapes sting. He forced his mind to stay focused, reading the Morse hums, though he was careful throughout to keep Thomas with him, insisting on regular comments to keep him from falling asleep.

The messages were starting to repeat themselves. He had been through every detail he could remember from his brief glimpse in the light and from his crawls afterward. The team knew exactly where they each were positioned against the wall, how much of the room was left, how often and how severe the debris falls close enough for him to hear were. All that data was being plugged in. He and Thomas had been assured that the world out there was coming, just as soon as they could, but the building must be stabilized carefully first. However, like a 911 operator, the Morse expert on the other end was now trying to keep the line open, apparently intending to stay in conversation until the medics had them on gurneys and hauled them out of this hell hole. Reassuring psychologically, but physically, it was annoying.

Thomas' hand closed over his wrist, interrupting his latest tap. "Let me take over for a while, Greg," he said.

"I'm _fine,_" House snapped. "Besides, you're hurt."

"So are you. Those broken ribs -"

"_Cracked_ ribs," House insisted.

"They're broken. I can tell the Morse is hurting, no matter which hand you use. Just rest for a few minutes. It will help."

"You're as weak as a kitten yourself," House replied. "You're not strong enough to keep up a conversation like this right now, old man." For perhaps the first time, there wasn't even hidden affection in the title; he meant it to sting, the more the better. Damn it, he didn't need Thomas on his case trying to ferret out how badly his leg was hurting.

Besides, he told himself, he was right. Thomas was _not_ strong enough to keep this up for any length of time, even less so than he was. That was a medical fact.

There was a brief silence, but the old man's voice was steady when he continued, absorbing the dart. "We can switch off," Thomas suggested. "Five minutes each."

"You'd never make it. You're having trouble even sitting up straight."

Thomas momentarily pulled himself back up against the wall from his slumped posture in silent defiance. "You can't keep this up much longer, Greg."

"I don't need you to . . ." House broke off in a hiss as, shifting minutely to try a different angle on the pipe that might spare his ribs a little more, he jolted his leg. It snarled ominously, and he could almost see the gleaming white teeth of the pain as they approached, even through the darkness. Not now, damn it. Not here. Not in front of . . .

"Greg?" The concern in Thomas' voice ramped up sharply, coming through loud and clear.

"I'm fine," he managed, but even as he said it, his debris telegraph key dropped from fingers which, with a will of their own, jumped to his leg. His balancing act on the tightrope tipped, swaying much too far to the right over the canyon yawning beneath. Then the pulse roaring in his head drowned out voices and taps altogether as, with an involuntary whimper of pure pain and failure, he went into free fall.


	20. Chapter 20

Up until that moment, Thomas had been silently fighting his own battle with part of his limited strength even while arguing with his maddeningly stubborn son with the rest of it. Greg had been accurate in calling him weak as a kitten, and he really _was_ having trouble sitting up straight, even with the wall's assistance. His headache was a medium-intensity drill boring relentlessly into his right temple, and his left shoulder led the charge of lesser aches and pains, though it had plenty of company. The seductive siren call of sleep was audible any time he wasn't actively fighting it, and while he could push it away, it was an effort. Overall, he felt exactly like he had crashed into a wall at full speed, or, more accurately, like one had crashed into him. But the weakness was definitely the strongest enemy, even ahead of the pain.

In one horrified second, love and adrenaline blew awareness of everything else completely out of the water.

He caught Greg as he collapsed, desperately trying to help, trying to keep him from hurting himself further in the fall. His son didn't even seem aware of his efforts. Both of Greg's hands were clenched on his leg, and the low keen of pain that escaped him stabbed clear through Thomas more sharply than a dagger. Thomas gently guided him toward the floor while a lightning debate seared through his mind - would it hurt Greg more to be on his right side with the leg or his left with the broken ribs? Even if his leg was the main problem now, puncturing a lung was an acute danger and would make matters even worse. Greg meanwhile was folding up toward the fetal position. Thomas managed to keep him from hitting his head against the wall as he collapsed. They wound up with Greg on the floor, now parallel to the wall he'd been sitting against moments earlier, and Thomas trying to hold him on his back, but Greg kept flipping desperately to the right.

"Greg! Tell me what to do. How can I help?" His pleas fell on ears that were obviously deaf to anything right now except the hurricane of pain.

Thomas felt along Greg's leg himself. The muscle was _moving_, jumping and pulsing irregularly beneath his hands as if a river in rapids were raging underneath the skin. Even as the muscle fought its own battle, it was rigid in between the convulsive jumps. A full spasm, not just involving Greg's thigh but his entire leg. Greg clawed at it like an animal trying to dig through, and Thomas reached up to his face, hoping his touch might register there. "Greg! Tell me how to help you."

Nothing. The outer world beyond Greg's own tortured nerve endings didn't exist at the moment. Thomas could feel the involuntary tears running freely down his son's face. Thomas was crying himself, although he didn't notice.

He reached down again to his son's leg, trying massage. Lisa in the park that night had massaged it. As bad as that had been, though, he could tell this spasm was far, far worse. The leg felt like iron beneath Thomas' fingers other than those spasmodic jumps.

Meds. Greg's meds had been in his right jacket pocket when he took them at lunch. Only he wasn't wearing his jacket now, and he was rapidly sweating clear through his shirt. Thomas felt around blindly in the darkness and finally found the jacket next to the wall on what had been his son's other side when they had been sitting together. He pulled it free and heard the welcome rattle as it came. The right pocket yielded five pill bottles.

Thomas stopped, stumped. He had no idea which pill was in which bottle, even assuming nothing had changed since the list in court last July, a list that had contained more than five drugs. In the darkness, there was no way to tell. Even if he could, he realized, getting Greg to swallow a pill at the moment in his blind agony would be difficult. He'd be much more likely to choke. His son was breathing in ragged gasps, far too quickly, and Thomas cringed as if the stab of the broken ribs was in his own side. He put a hand on his son's neck, finding the carotid pulse after a moment. It was far too fast. Dangerously fast. And accelerating.

Another desperate fumble in the darkness found that piece of rubble Greg had been using, and then Thomas reached toward the frantically buzzing mosquito in the wall, finding the pipe. Telling them to hurry up was pointless; they were going as fast as they safely could already. Greg might have skimped a few details about the two of them in his report, but he had been crystal clear that he thought the betting clerk had a fractured skull and needed emergency brain surgery. The rescue teams already knew that every minute counted while stabilizing the building, but it sounded like a tricky mess according to their replies. The third floor directly above their trap was in imminent danger of total collapse instead of merely shedding small pieces, and if it came completely down, they would all be killed.

No, immediate physical help from outside was impossible, but there was definitely far more experience out there in dealing with Greg's pain than Thomas had. Keeping one hand on his son, he tapped out an abbreviated message with the other. _Bad leg pain. Cramp. Lisa. What do._

Then, as he waited and tried again to massage Greg's leg and break the spasm, he prayed.

(H/C)

As Cuddy stared out the window toward the building, Jensen abruptly noticed the police officer. He had stepped outside in response to whatever message he'd received in his earpiece, but he hadn't gone far past the open back door of the blocky emergency services van they were waiting in, and he was still visible several feet away, his back to them. The conversation wasn't audible, but his body language gnawed at the psychiatrist. Patterson, feeling Jensen's attention shift, followed his gaze. Jensen came to his feet and softly stepped out, trying not to alarm Cuddy or Kate without definite facts.

"Is there a new problem?" he asked, walking up to the officer.

The man turned to face him, hesitated briefly, and then came clean. "They've lost contact. The tapping just stopped in the middle of a word."

A fresh tide of worry surged in even as Jensen scrambled for an explanation - _another_ explanation. "Could the snake have lost position? Fallen out of the pipe?"

The policeman shook his head. "They weren't advancing or withdrawing the snake anymore. Just holding it still and turning the drill off and on to signal. They had the location perfectly, right behind House in the wall."

Cuddy suddenly noticed this tete-a-tete, and she popped to her feet and left the van herself. "What's going on?" she demanded suspiciously.

Jensen's eyes met Patterson's in a silent heads-up as she stepped out, and she quickly came up to Cuddy's side, poised and ready. Wilson followed, then Kate and her friend. Everybody was out now.

Jensen spoke before the officer did, thinking Cuddy might take it minutely better coming from him. "The tapping has stopped."

She went even paler, and in the next second, she turned, starting for the building. Wilson latched on as an anchor, pulling her back, as Patterson attached to her other arm. "You can't go in there, Cuddy," he reminded her.

"If they won't, I will," she insisted, fighting for another step.

"They're going as quickly as they can, ma'am," the officer assured her. "They know they need emergency medical treatment already. There could still be some other expl-" He broke off in mid word, one hand coming up in a wait gesture as his earpiece spoke to him again. Everybody obediently waited, even Cuddy and Kate watching him again, no longer the building.

"I will," the officer said in quick reply. He turned to Cuddy. "There's a new message, apparently from Mr. Thornton now. _Bad leg pain. Cramp. Lisa. What do._"

Cuddy sagged for a moment, then straightened up, answering the challenge, bravely fighting to keep focused. "Massaging it helps. He's got to get deep enough to break the spasm but go carefully, too. Start at the edges and work in." As the officer repeated her instructions to be passed along to Thomas, she looked at Wilson. "But in a bad spasm, it can take more than massage to break it," she worried. She could only imagine his leg's reaction to being in an explosion. This spasm had to be far, far worse than just a random bad pain day.

"What meds did he have with him this morning when he left?" Wilson asked.

She sighed. "I didn't check, but he _never_ would have taken the shots along. Not when he was with Thomas." She looked helplessly toward the building again. "And it's the shots he needs. In really bad ones, his pulse gets dangerous." She could almost see the words in her mind's eye as if written out on a chalkboard in a med school class: Ventricular fibrillation. An uncontrolled pain crisis was quite capable of shorting out the heart if it accelerated far enough.

"What _does_ he have with him?" Jensen asked, splitting the question between the officer and Cuddy. The officer passed it along.

The relayed reply came about a minute later. "He's not sure. It is totally dark in there," the officer informed them, a piece of information he hadn't seen any point in sharing earlier. "He wouldn't be able to read the bottles."

Wilson, Jensen, and Cuddy looked at each other, all wheels spinning in silent differential and every one of the three of them wishing that House were out here leading the session. Any other patient, with his genius brain contributing, would have a better chance than he himself did.

Patterson, the least personally invested of the four doctors, thought of it first. "Isn't he on p.r.n. Ativan?"

Jensen seized the idea. "Yes! Not a pain killer, but it _would_ slow down his heart. It might even help the spasm somewhat. If he had it with him." He turned quickly to the officer. "How many pill bottles does he have?"

The painfully tense process of passing along the question and waiting for a reply spun itself out. "That's even in sublingual form," Wilson added during the interval. "It would be almost an immediate hit, and he wouldn't have to swallow it. Not as good as the shots, but it's the best of the pills right now." He had seen House at a 10 a few times himself, and he knew that his friend lost all awareness at that point. It was horrifying to watch. Wilson's respect for Thomas, growing since the January trip when he'd met him, made another jump. To be faced with witnessing that alone, in total darkness yet with a building falling apart around them, while hurt himself, and still be able to carry on a conversation in Morse code at the same time - what a mind as well as raw strength of will behind it Thomas must have.

Like his son.

"Five pill bottles," the officer finally answered.

"Vicodin, ibuprofen, omeprazole." Cuddy rattled off the three constants immediately, then paused for thought. Her husband would hardly have taken the sleeping pills along with him on a day at the races. Deleting the injectable rescue meds, that left- "Flexeril and Ativan," she concluded. If they could get him over the hump, Flexeril might help some, too, but the Ativan was faster acting and easier to take.

"The first three are oblong," Wilson said. "Bigger, too." He pulled out his own Ativan and removed a tablet to refresh his memory. Yes, as he'd thought, Ativan was _tiny_. "What does Flexeril look like - or feel like?" he asked Cuddy. Hopefully different enough.

She closed her eyes for a moment in thought. "I think it's five sided like Ativan. Different color - but in the dark . . ." She opened her eyes and reached over to take the Ativan pill from Wilson, trying to jog her own memory. House didn't use Flexeril unless it was a really bad day, and she handled it herself even less often. "It's bigger, though. I'm sure it's bigger. Tell Thomas to find the smallest pill. Two of them are the same shape, but the smaller one will be the Ativan. Give him two-" She looked to the other doctors for a silent medical consultation, and they nodded quickly. "Two of those under his tongue. If that doesn't make a difference pretty quickly in his pulse, give him two more." She started out already at a higher dose than he took for anxiety, but he would need every bit of it right now. They could deal with a drugged House later, as long as he was alive.

The officer rattled this message off quickly, and then they stood on the parking lot in silence, a cluster of people powerless to do anything more at the moment but wait. Cuddy suddenly wavered, feeling wobbly now that the instructions were delivered. This was the best they could do with the limited resources available; if this didn't work, more extensive help probably was too far away to reach her husband in time. Wilson and Patterson closed up in support and slowly steered her back toward the van. The others came along, the officer staying with them for immediate news as soon as he had it, and everybody sat back down.

And they waited.


	21. Chapter 21

"Greg."

The low voice reached through the overlay of sensation from a distance. There was still pain, but the storm was retreating now, and the pain itself even as it diminished seemed partly muted, as if he were feeling it through a few layers of gauze. Hands were on his leg, chasing out the remnant cramping areas as the tortured muscle slowly let go. The relief was so great that for just a moment, he was content not to think. Now versus the total sensory overload he was leaving was such a blessed contrast that he couldn't resist simply enjoying it. This was only pain, at a high level still, but familiar, bearable even if worse than baseline. This wasn't the sharp-toothed monster in full attack. He knew this. He could handle this. It wouldn't overpower him.

Those hands kept kneading, and he leaned into them slightly. They probed along the leg's crater, finding another tight spot, gently but firmly working on releasing it.

"Greg? Can you hear me?"

That voice. He followed it, and his mind began to lurch into gear again, though he felt oddly like he was dragging an anchor along with him. Whose voice? It seemed both right and wrong simultaneously. He knew this but could not pin down at first what bothered him about it. Not her voice. Not her hands, either; these were stronger, without her magic touch and not as used to this process, but they were learning the subtleties quickly, acquainting themselves with his leg even as they went, and the technique was improving moment by moment. But the voice was familiar; it belonged here somehow. The hands were gentle. He gave a soft sigh as they worked loose another tight spot.

"Greg?"

His mind shifted slowly from first gear into second, and memory started flooding back. No, she wasn't with him here. He was trapped in the building.

Thornton. Thomas was with him. Thomas was touching his leg, had his hands right on the scar.

The knowledge was a cold dash of water in the face, kicking him roughly back into full awareness (though still dragging that anchor). Every inch of House recoiled, and he pulled away from those hands, rolling to the left.

Memory wasn't fully there yet; he forgot to take his broken ribs into account. The stab of pain in his left side knocked him back helplessly against the floor again, and the shock reverberated along all of his still-trembling nerve endings. Had he been sitting up, he would have fallen over again.

"Damn it, Greg! You're going to hurt your ribs if you don't lie still. I'm only trying to help you."

"Leave . . . me. . . alone." House managed the three words with difficulty.

"No." Thomas straightened him out again carefully on his back on the floor, then resumed chasing down cramping spots in his leg. House pulled away again, more gingerly this time, and Thomas followed him. House was too weak, his nerves still too overloaded, to fight him off. Almost wishing the place _would_ collapse just to change the subject, he lay there helpless, no choice but to submit at least physically. To his annoyance, his leg was responding to that massage in spite of himself. To his further annoyance, he couldn't even get properly annoyed about it. The feelings were there, but they had a long climb up to reach the front of his mind where he could express them.

Drugged. He felt _drugged_.

"What did you give me?" he asked.

"Ativan. Hopefully Ativan. Four pills."

_"Four?"_ Good thing he wasn't going to be driving tonight. But no, the ambulance would have its own drivers; he wouldn't have to. He shook his head carefully, trying to clear it. This wasn't as bad as the morphine with its swirling clouds; he _could_ think, but he felt weighed down, his body as well as his mind heavy. All the steps took several times longer than usual. "I only take one," he insisted.

"Lisa said to start with two and go up from there unless you responded immediately. Two weren't working fast enough, so I repeated it."

"Lisa? You told _Lisa_?"

Thomas stopped his massage in the darkness, and House realized why a moment later. The old man sounded almost mad at the question, something House had very rarely seen from him, and he didn't want his own feelings to transmit through his hands and make the muscle tense up again. "Yes, damn it, I told Lisa. Your pulse was out of control, you weren't responding at all, and you were in agony. I found the pills, but I didn't know which were which in the dark. Massage wasn't working. So I asked them to ask her what I should do. You were heading for a heart attack, Greg. I thought you were going to die right here in front of me, and I was helpless." His voice was quivering and suddenly had the sheen of tears underneath it.

"It wasn't that bad," House insisted. He knew that it had been, though. He couldn't remember a spasm that severe, not in his whole history with his leg. He quite well could have gone into V fib. He'd come close to it before with far less trigger than a bomb.

"Yes, it was," Thomas said.

"She'll be frantic."

Thomas straightened up sharply. "I need to update them. They're waiting." He leaned across his son to pick up the rubble key. He dropped it once during his brief message, and House realized that his hands must be trembling. _Greg better. Cant tap const. Min nec now._

He sat back, no longer leaning over his son, and gave himself a moment. Then his hands returned to House's leg. House couldn't help cringing as they touched the scar. "How are you feeling?" Thomas asked, his hands steadying as they found their task again in chasing out the final remnants of cramp.

"That whole episode wasn't enough to tell you?" House replied bitterly. He was helpless to resist. The strength to pull away simply wasn't there any longer.

"It told me that your bad leg, which was strained when I jumped on you and from the explosion and crawling around, went into spasms from muscle strain after you Morsed for a few hours nonstop. All of which is understandable. But it didn't tell me everything. You aren't, either, not even now." He found the last really bad spot and started working on it, and House tightened up again before his leg rebelled on him just like his mind was and responded to those hands anyway. Part of him deep down had to admit grudgingly that the old man wasn't bad at this, especially for his first time.

"Greg," Thomas said, his hands still working, "you have a deep, ugly, twisted scar, but it isn't the one you think it is. Your leg doesn't matter to me, not except that I wish you weren't in pain. But I don't mind touching it. I'm not repulsed by it. That other scar is the one that bothers me, but it reflects poorly on me, not on you. It's your lack of a true father growing up. Which was my fault. But this, right now, this is a medical condition resulting from an infarction years ago. Nothing more." He finished releasing that final area and felt along his son's leg, making sure he hadn't missed anything. Then finally, he sat back. One hand went up to run along the edge of his son's face, a gentle caress, and then he removed the hand before House had time to send the Ativan-weighted command along his muscles to pull away from the touch.

There was silence for a few minutes. Thomas slowly, like the air deflating from a balloon, folded down to the floor, lying down at his son's side. He reached over to check House's pulse again, then, reassured, lay back with a long sigh.

He was hurt, too, House remembered. He could tell that _Thomas_ remembered it now, and that told him that Thomas had forgotten it completely during the crisis. "How are you feeling, old man?" he asked.

"A little banged up but not too bad," Thomas replied, a glimmer of humor shining in his voice.

House groaned. "That is _so_ not fair. I was trying to keep from freaking Lisa out earlier, and you know the back story on that. I would have told her the truth tonight once we were out."

"As little as you had to," Thomas corrected. "I see where you're coming from on the past, Greg, but don't underestimate her. You also said she's started therapy and is doing better. You probably worried her more by lying - and I'm sure she knew you were lying."

House squirmed slightly and wrenched the subject back onto the old man. "Seriously, how are you feeling? That's medically relevant here. Tell the truth."

"Not until you do," Thomas insisted.

"Damn it. You can be a stubborn idiot at times, you know it?"

"Where do you think you got it from?" Thomas shot back.

This was annoying. His mind wasn't quite going at full speed right now; he was lagging on the mental jumps. This wasn't a fair contest. "All right, I'll just give you a physical exam again and draw my own conclusions."

"Go right ahead," Thomas invited.

House sighed. He didn't want to move, afraid to kick off either his ribs or his leg again. "If you started the bleeding up again, we are in trouble. You easily could have bled to death earlier if I hadn't woken up when I did. That is a _bad_ cut."

Thomas reached up himself to touch the T-shirt bandage tied around his head, and House felt his involuntary jump as he touched it. Putting the pain aside, House gingerly but as quickly as he could reached over himself. The T-shirt was soaked. His own adrenaline kicked in, wrestling with the Ativan, and he tried to push himself up on one elbow. Damn it, his whole body wasn't quite working properly. His ribs and leg didn't like that much, either. But feeling around the bandage before he had to release the muscular tension and lie back down again, he realized that the _whole_ T-shirt was soaked. Evenly. Not just the part over the cut but the entire band around Thomas' head. He reached out a tentative hand and felt the other man's shirt. It, too, was dripping. He had been sweating that much while fighting his son's spasm.

"I think I was just sweating," Thomas agreed.

House realized now that his clothes were just as wet. He touched his own shirt. Probably could have wrung it out, and all of the cuts and scrapes were stinging. He sighed again. "Come on, old man. How are you feeling?" Silence. After a stubborn minute, House grudgingly added, "I think those ribs might be broken after all and not just cracked."

"I feel shaky," Thomas replied. "And the headache is a good bit worse. But other than that, at this moment, I feel pretty good. And that _is_ the truth."

"Pretty good?" House asked skeptically.

"You're alive. Five or however many minutes ago that was - seemed like eternity - I wasn't sure you would be. But you are. I managed to do something to help you."

"Trying to make up for the past?" House asked.

They were lying very closely beside each other, and he felt Thomas shake his head slightly and then wince at the motion. "I wasn't even thinking about the past during all that, Greg. I was just thinking about you."

The silence lengthened again as House tried to wrap his somewhat-sedated mind around that statement. After a few minutes, he poked Thomas in the side. "Are you still sleepy?"

"Yes," came the slightly delayed response. "I can fight it, though."

"You need to. You have to stay awake." He lay there for a minute, trying to come up with a topic. Everything was working in slow motion. He felt tempted to go to sleep on the spot himself, but he couldn't leave the old man alone in here. Had to keep him alert.

Thomas found a topic first. "Tell me about how you got Rachel. And about when Abby was born."

The two of them lay side by side in the darkness, both utterly spent, and House began to talk about his daughters.


	22. Chapter 22

A/N: Thanks for all the reviews. Next chapter, we will return to House and Thomas, and things really start moving on the rescue. Hopefully tomorrow unless Saturday implodes on me.

(H/C)

Cuddy looked out the window toward the building again. What was going on in there? Twenty minutes. It had been twenty minutes since they had passed the medicine description on to Thomas. She felt as much in the dark as they were - but if she could have donated the sun into that room for them and put herself in literal darkness in their place, she would have.

Wilson gave her arm a squeeze. "He's probably just massaging the cramp out, Cuddy. That will take a while. If it wasn't working at all, Thornton would have been asking us for another idea already."

She sighed, knowing that there weren't any other ideas. Thomas had no other weapons in there with him in this battle. If Ativan didn't work, her husband would most likely die before the rescuers would be able to break through safely. "The last thing he told me was that he loved me," she said softly. "He sent me a text early this afternoon. That was the end of it." She touched her ring and then the emerald necklace, and to her horror, she suddenly realized that she couldn't remember the last thing Thomas had said to her that morning as the men were leaving. She only remembered that it had made her smile.

"Hopefully he'll have a lot more future things to say to you," Patterson told her.

Kate had been observing the new crisis silently from the sidelines, looking more guilty by the second, but now, Cuddy's words jogged her own memory. "The last thing Josh told me was warning me. About Dale." She shuddered, and her friend pulled her into a tighter hug. "That was right before the explosion." Cuddy looked over, distracted for a moment by the memory that Kate had actually heard the explosion via her cell phone. Cuddy at least had been given the news through a friend, not live play-by-play. She couldn't imagine hearing a phone call like that, being trapped at a distance and helpless to reach in and stop it.

"Maybe that won't be the last thing you hear from him," she said, trying to pass Patterson's statement on. Her tone was still shaky, but the effort was there.

Patterson gave her an approving squeeze of the shoulder. "Let's just worry about what we _do_ know at the moment. That's quite bad enough, but one thing we do know is that they're alive. In bad trouble, but alive. Dr. Wilson is right; Thornton would have been back in communication before this if things failed." She paused a moment. "But once we're out of here, once this is all over, remind me to tell you sometime what my husband's last words to me were." She deliberately left it dangling, her tone bittersweet but obviously finding a sort of humor in it now through the telescope of years, and curiosity nudged at both Cuddy and Kate even through the present fear.

At that moment, the officer straightened up as they heard his earpiece crackle faintly. He passed along the news to Cuddy with a smile even before the transmission was finished, but he was looking thoughtful by the end. "He says Dr. House is better. Apparently the Ativan worked."

Cuddy slumped back against the wall in relief, her hand going to her ring again. Wilson and Jensen both relaxed at least partially, smiling, and Patterson gave Cuddy another hug. It took a moment for the officer's second reaction to register. "What else?" Cuddy demanded suspiciously. "That wasn't all of the message."

"He said that they couldn't tap constantly and that they were cutting communication to the minimum necessary now."

"Greg must have been tapping on that pipe for hours nonstop. That probably contributed to the cramp. That on top of being _a little banged up_." Her tone had a touch of the PPTH administrator ice there, that special note that promised private dissection of this point later once she had the offending party behind closed doors. "But if Thomas doesn't feel strong enough to take over the talking either . . ." Worry pushed back in, wrestling with hope.

"He _is_ 75," Jensen reminded her. "And he's just had a hell of a half hour. It makes perfect sense that he's feeling wrung out. But obviously, bad cut to the head or not, his mind is working just fine."

"He must really be something," Patterson agreed. "To be able to talk in Morse code in the middle of all that."

Cuddy smiled fondly. "He is. He can seem so _ordinary_ on the surface, but once you get to know him a little, he's razor sharp underneath it. Never stops thinking on his feet. And he's _fun_. Maybe you'll get a chance to meet him someday." She trailed off, filling in the rest of that thought. "I meant socially, not pulled out of a collapsing building tonight."

Wilson spoke up. "You _do_ realize, Cuddy, that they're probably going to look like hell when they come out."

"I don't care _what_ they look like," she snapped. She touched her ring and then the necklace again. "Not as long as they're alive."

Wilson flinched. "I know. I was just trying to prepare you a little bit. Don't . . ." He stopped as she glared at him, and then he quickly decided to change the subject. "Where did you get that necklace?" He had worked it out, but he was still curious.

She smiled and then looked anxiously out the window again. "Thomas gave it to me this morning; it's from his family. We sat there and talked for what must have been an hour before everybody else got up." That poignant, priceless, _family_ moment couldn't possibly have been just this morning.

"It's beautiful," Jensen said, giving it a closer look. "Quite old." He stood up. "I'd better call Melissa and update her again. Cathy ought to be getting home soon from her friend's, and Melissa will have her hands full then. Cathy will probably be wanting to start off on her bicycle or something."

Cuddy grinned briefly at the image. She knew Cathy and House had a special relationship. "You'd better let your brother know what's going on, too. He's got to be wondering."

Jensen pulled his cell phone out of his pocket. "Mark already called me before I was even halfway down here. He knows. And while I'll tell him more details of it all once they're out, I don't _have_ to update Mark that we're still waiting. He can track the wait himself, highs and lows. Emotionally, he knows as much about the situation as I do." He stepped out of the van.

Wilson shook his head. "I should have guessed. It must be interesting to be linked up to somebody like that."

Cuddy shuddered. She had _no_ desire to share a constant mental connection with her sister; the thought made her skin crawl.

The officer had been listening politely to all of this, trying both to be available and to grant them privacy at the same time, but now he came to attention again. All attempts at other conversation in the van promptly skidded to a halt. Everyone was watching him, waiting. He listened for a few minutes, then spoke to the group. "They've finished scanning the building with infrared. They have precise positions now on the three men in the bathroom, and they are all three definitely alive still." Kate let out a long breath. "They've also picked up a fourth person in the heart of the rubble, but from the falling body temperature there, that one is dead." Also judging from the fact that he appeared to be in two main pieces, though the policeman didn't share that detail.

"Dale," Kate stated.

"Anybody else trapped?" Wilson asked.

"No. There were other injures on two and on three, but those were all accessible fairly easily, and they evacuated them already. But no other people are registering in the rubble. It looks like the only fatality is the bomber." He didn't add so far. "This could have been a _lot_ worse."

Kate turned to Cuddy. "I am _so_ sorry," she repeated yet again. "Your husband and your other relative" - Cuddy had called Thomas a family member in her first frantic inquiries, and nobody had given Kate more details since - "were only in there because of me."

"No," Patterson said firmly. "They were in there because of your ex. You aren't responsible for his actions."

"But he . . . maybe if he could have found me. . .we didn't even know he was in Philly; he'd moved to Pittsburgh. But I had the restraining order, and we had moved and changed to unlisted numbers. He did this to hurt me; everybody else was just in the way."

"How did he know where Josh worked?" her friend asked. "I can't see him playing the horses and just running into him one day. Races wouldn't be enough under his control to interest him."

Kate shrugged. The policeman spoke up after a moment, offering the suggestion tentatively. "Someone from the track mentioned that your husband was employee of the month back in February, ma'am. The bomber could have run into the name in a press release from the track if he was doing an internet search."

"Damn it." Kate put one hand on her stomach again. "We never thought of that. It had been over a _year_. We thought we were free of him."

"You are now," Patterson reminded her. "And your husband is still alive."

"How far along are you?" Cuddy asked sympathetically.

"Three and a half months. We already were making lists of names." Kate still looked numb. "I can't believe he'd kill himself to hurt me. Kill _me_ maybe, but not himself."

"I can't either," her friend said. "He was the most self-centered jerk I've ever met, even if it took a while to see it." She looked at the others. "He had a polished front, but he was frightening after you knew him a while. Little things just started adding up. Possessive isn't a strong enough word. He was _obsessed_ with his woman. Running away from him was the best thing Kate ever did, but I can't picture him killing himself, even if he thought he was taking out Josh at the same time. Something had to have happened to kick him over the edge."

"The department downtown is working on tracking the background on him," the policeman said. "Maybe they'll turn up the trigger."

"How did he know explosives?" Wilson asked tentatively. He hated making her talk about this, but on the other hand, at least she was talking now and not sitting as a numb lump in the corner of the van like she had at first.

"He worked for a demolition company a few years ago," Kate replied. "He would _brag_ sometimes about the challenge of blowing something up, getting it to fall just right. It was like a sick puzzle to him, a challenge to do it _neatly_." She looked out the window. "They're sure Josh is still alive?"

"Yes," the officer repeated. "Body temperature is stable on all three of the men. They're alive."

Jensen re-entered the van, looking harassed. "Cathy's home?" Wilson guessed.

He nodded. "I talked to her for a few minutes. She's frantic. Wanted to get Melissa to drive straight down, but she doesn't need to be on the scene with this. Besides, it would be over before they got here - not that we'd let her come anyway, but I used that argument with her as well as just no." He looked at the officer. "How's the bracing coming?"

"They're working on it right now. This should be over before much longer." As if in answer to his thoughts, another heavy truck with more equipment rumbled by at that point, passing their staging area and proceeding toward the building. Kate and Cuddy both followed it with their eyes, envying its unrestricted access. As it passed, Cuddy caught a glimpse of the words Structural Engineering in the title.

Wilson, looking after it, realized something else. To the west, the sun was setting, nosing below the horizon as if it were any normal day. Whatever the night might bring, this afternoon was almost over.


	23. Chapter 23

"She's still a little small, but other than that, you'd never know," House said.

There was a pause. The conversation was slow now, though determined. Both of the men were fighting sleep, and whenever one would drift off, the other would nudge him back awake. They had lost all track of time. House was about to poke Thomas again when his father finally answered. "She is taller now than she was in January. I could definitely tell a difference."

"Yeah. I hope she catches up before she hits school." Kids could be brutal if given any difference to pick at. House shifted, worry gnawing at him along with the pain. "The girls have to be suspicious by now. Lisa wouldn't have told them everything, but still."

"They're too young for the wait," Thomas agreed. "But yes, they'll realize something's going on." The silence lengthened again, and then he snapped himself back to alertness right before House did. "Wilson said back at New Year's that they had been really upset with Blythe's death. How's that going?"

House forced himself to open his eyes, which stubbornly had drifted shut again. Not that it made a bit of difference in the inky blackness, but it was easier to stay awake that way. Damned drugs. "That wasn't really about Mom as much as Lisa explaining death to them as someone going away and never coming back. So they decided anytime we left, we must have died. She told them it was like falling asleep and not waking up again, too." Thomas groaned sympathetically. "But I didn't even _try_ to explain it," House added quickly in apology to Cuddy. She shouldn't have been tackling that hurdle alone.

"You had just lost your mother, Greg. Cut yourself some slack. But are the girls doing better now?"

"Much. Jensen and Lisa's shrink both said that they'd get over that quickly, just with reassurance from us. Really, leaving them hasn't been a problem at all the last month. Even back in Lexington, it was already getting better. But now. . ." He sighed. "I'll be sure to talk to them tonight, just for a minute. Just so they can hear me."

"That will help." Thomas sighed himself. "I guess there's no way to avoid the hospital tonight."

"At _least_ tonight. We're going from here to the nearest ER, not that Lisa would let us dodge it anyway. And you need a CT scan. You've definitely got at least a mild concussion. Not to mention a whole bunch of stitches. Hope you look good in scars; you'll have a nice one on your temple."

"And you need to get those ribs evaluated, plus some stronger medicines for your leg. Plus treatment for whatever else you haven't said."

House couldn't help tensing up again at the mention of his leg, and the leg itself reacted to the muscle twitch, giving a low growl. He couldn't stay stiff, though, his body quickly melting back down into an Ativan puddle on the floor. "There _is_ nothing else," he snapped. "Other than lots of cuts and scrapes. We've all got those."

"You said back in court, Greg, and again just a few minutes ago, that you didn't realize how bad your head injury was with Abby. Or that other time you mentioned on the stand, some kind of bus crash."

"Because I was tied up dealing with another crisis," House qualified. "I was distracted."

"You think you aren't now? How do you know you aren't hurt worse than you realize? And we _had_ to drug you on top of that; there wasn't any choice. That just makes assessing it worse."

It hadn't occurred to House that the old man might be diligently working on keeping _him_ awake for anything other than some company while waiting for rescue. "I did feel around my head earlier. A nice goose egg but nothing more. It's not sore to push on it." Anybody doing even that minimum exam back after Abby's birth would have discovered the problem quickly. "I probably ought to get a CT scan, too," he conceded. "Besides, Lisa would never let them skip that. She's still mad at the ER for not checking me out thoroughly those other two times."

Silence. The building was making different sounds now, transmitted thunks along beams. They could tell things were going on, which was reassuring. At least the Morse mosquito in the wall was silent now; the operator out there had taken Thomas' message to heart and dropped the "keep them talking" chit-chat. Only once had they had a message, that after yet another debris fall from the ceiling that had actually clipped them a little bit. Fortunately, it had only been small pieces. The pipe had spoken up quickly then: _All okay in there?_ House, closer to the pipe, had considered several possible eloquent replies to that, but he lacked the energy to make any of them. He found the debris chunk and settled for just _yes._

"Greg?" Thomas put a gentle hand on his shoulder, and House came alert with a jerk. Must have dropped off to sleep again.

"I ought to go over and check on the clerk again," he said. "Has to have been a few hours since I did." His body rebelled against even the thought of medical duty. He didn't want to move.

"No," Thomas replied firmly. "You don't need to be crawling around any more. I'll do it." But he didn't move, either. "I wonder what time it is."

House smiled in the darkness. "Grandad's watch is okay. It made it. My cell phone in the same pocket was smashed, though. Guess they really don't make things like they used to." He gingerly pulled the watch out and held it to his ear, then to Thomas'. The steady tick in the darkness was reassuring.

Thomas chuckled. "That watch has better luck than either one of us. Glad it was along with us today."

"What's the other gift?" House asked suddenly. Thomas hesitated. "If we both die in here and you haven't told me, I'll never know."

"If we both die in here, knowing won't be much use to you." House didn't reply, but he was tensing up, or at least trying to, again. "Did John taunt you with empty promises of gifts?" Thomas asked.

House lay there for a moment. "Among other things," he said finally, bitterly, the three words heavy.

Thomas reached over to touch him again, and in the few seconds before House shifted away, he was struck once more by the gentleness and strength in those hands. An odd combination. "I hate to tell you right now because you'll want to use it, and I really think it's going to be several days before you can. It would be frustrating for you. But it _is_ real, Greg." Another silence, and then he yielded. "It's a piece of sheet music. The one original song of Dad's that we found written down."

House straightened up, his fingers already reaching in the dark for a keyboard, and his ribs stabbed at him. He sank back against the floor. "Does it have a name?"

"Just sonata. It's two pages long, handwritten. _His _writing." Thomas let out a long breath full of regrets and memories both. "The thing is, Greg, I have absolutely no memory of him playing this. It's not one of the birthday songs. It just happens to be the first one that turned up during that hour. We didn't have time to go through everything in the house; if there was more, we never found it. Not that _I_ was working on finding it anyway. But Tim was trying his best to prioritize that day at the house. We just ran out of time."

"Your uncle was an asshole," House said.

"That's definitely one word for him." Thomas was starting to shiver slightly, fine tremors which he was obviously trying to suppress. House reached over to touch his forehead. He wasn't running a fever, and the T-shirt felt no more wet than it had earlier, but his skin was clammy.

"_You_ are either still bleeding somewhere, or you've just run clear through your reserves by doing too much after all the blood loss earlier. You still feel shaky?"

"Yes," Thomas admitted.

House gritted his teeth, itching for a lab to check hemoglobin, in fact for a fully equipped ER. They needed to get out of here. "It can't be too much long. . ."

He broke off as the snake in the pipe starting humming again, the signals rapid, not waiting for reply. _Watch out. Drill coming through the floor. Stay still. _

"Well, that's something new, at least," Thomas noted. He'd take any form of progress.

They waited in the darkness, the sleepiness retreating for the moment in a fresh dose of adrenaline. House was glad of the advance warning, because the sound was otherworldly, and the floor beneath them transmitted the vibrations. If he hadn't known what was going on, this would have felt frighteningly close to the building completely giving up around them and preparing for full collapse. The vibrations increased and the sound localized, suddenly popping through the floor, obviously out into their space now a few feet away, in between them and the clerk. The drill stopped and then retreated, and then there was another rattle. Then came a voice, startling after all their hours entombed in here.

"House! Thornton!" It was tinny, apparently sounding through a pipe or tube of some kind, but the words were clear. "Can you hear me?"

"Yes!" House tried to sit up, and his ribs knocked him back to the mat.

Thomas gently pushed him down. "We hear you!"

"We're almost ready to get you out. Hang on a little longer. We're going to be pushing a light stick up through the hole. Don't try to grab it; just let it fall out the top of the tube to the side. After that, we're sending up a miniature camera. We want to get a direct look at the ceiling in the bathroom. The structural team thinks we need to set up a few braces directly in there for the ceiling if possible before we start digging for you. We're going to have to take you out through the floor, and making a hole that big will really vibrate the building. The rest of the building is as braced as we can get it; we just want a first-hand look in there to match what the scans are telling us. We'll have you out of this in twenty minutes. But _stay still_. We don't need your position changing while we're drilling. Okay?"

"We understand," Thomas called.

There were a few more rattles and bangs, sounds of progress. House and Thomas lay silent, tense, waiting. After a few minutes, the light stick came up, the glow of it reaching into their darkness even before the stick itself was at the top of the tube. It fell out onto the bathroom floor, and Thomas gave a deep sigh of gratitude as their prison suddenly illuminated.

"Can you see?" House asked.

"Yes." The relief was almost unbearable. He looked around their prison, curious. It was smaller than he had realized, the room about half its former size now.

House, still flat on his back, was looking up. "Holy shit."

Thomas looked up himself and gulped. The ceiling was visibly bulging above them, sloping ominously, several small pieces missing already. A deep crack ran through the remainder from well into the open space, passing above them, and disappeared into the deep pile of rubble at the former entrance passage. "Did it look that bad earlier, Greg?"

"I don't think so. The light wasn't this good, but . . ." No, he was sure it hadn't, even though he had been more occupied with stopping bleeding than taking a structural survey.

Another whirr, and an eyeball-shaped camera popped out of the small hole like a periscope rising from beneath the floor. It was clearly drivable to some extent on the end of its stiff tether, and it paused about a foot up, tilted itself, and thoroughly surveyed the ceiling. A moment, then it straightened out again and turned a full circle of the room, looking at them and the walls. It then popped back down through the floor.

"Hang on," the voice came again a moment later through the floor. "The team is looking over the pictures."

"Bracing the ceiling would be a smart move," House called back. Even getting this tiny hole had vibrated the building. Making a person-sized hole in the middle of this room was going to jolt everything far more. He stared at that ominous crack, then closed his eyes, forcing himself to open them again a moment later. It was just an optical illusion, the logical side of his brain insisted. The ceiling wasn't _actually_ getting closer even as he watched. The situation was bad enough without imagination kicking in.

He turned his head, looking away from the ceiling, to survey Thomas. Not that that prospect was much more cheerful looking. The old man looked like he had been dipped in blood and sweat and then rolled while wet through a container of ceiling and wall dust.

Thomas was looking straight back at him. "On second thought," the old man admitted, "Lisa _might_ freak out at this after all, even if she is in therapy. You look awful, Greg." He reached out to touch his son again. "Are you sure all this blood is mine?"

"Probably about 98%. Hold still." House managed with difficulty to get himself propped up on his right elbow and reached over to inspect the T-shirt bandage. The cut didn't seem to be bleeding through, but the bandage, like every inch of the rest of them, was _filthy_. "Antibiotics," he repeated urgently. "We all need antibiotics."

Thomas looked over at the clerk, propped up against the wall. "I can see him breathing," he said. He pushed himself weakly up into a sitting position and moved in for a closer inspection of his son. "Greg, are you . . ."

"Be still!" The voice in the floor spoke up quickly. "You two have to stay still. We're going to be bringing three braces through the floor. One of those is going to be at your feet, one beside you. They'll come up like poles and then expand. We're not going to run into you if you stay put, but you can't be moving around. Just lie there."

House collapsed back to the floor, and Thomas lay down next to him again. The braces coming up were even worse in sound effects than the original hole, and they were much closer to them. The drill vibrations were greater, and House watched small dust bits come off the ceiling and tried to tell himself that that crack wasn't expanding in front of his eyes. The first brace popped up, a steel pole of about two inches across, right beyond Thomas' feet. It rose toward the ceiling, and the camera surfaced again behind them to monitor its progress. Just short of the ceiling, the brace popped open like an umbrella, secondary metal support ribs extending out with some sort of shield. House couldn't help being fascinated at the technology even in this moment. It moved up carefully now, one centimeter at a time, and they both heard the contact. The ceiling groaned deeply. Soon as the first was in place, another hole started being drilled off just to the side, and another brace was soon sprouting through the floor there.

House looked over at the old man; Thomas was watching the process in pure fascination. He felt his son's gaze and looked over, a smile breaking his blood-and-dust-caked face. "This is cool."

House couldn't help a grin in reply. "Yeah."

(H/C)

"I know, but something came up. . . yes, Daddy's here, too. Yes, and Thomas. You can't talk to Daddy right now, Rachel, but I'll see if he has time later. . . I'm sorry. We're probably not going to make it home tonight, but Marina and Sandra are there. . . I love you. I will tell Daddy, I promise. He loves you, too. Bye." Cuddy hit end on her cell phone and worried at her lower lip. The girls were getting progressively more restless. They were used to their parents getting called out to emergencies and having to leave abruptly, but they also sensed the tension in this afternoon. At this most recent check-in, they had insisted on talking to Cuddy in person.

"Well done," Patterson told her. "They're too young to know exactly what's going on until we have solid details."

"At least things are better than they were back right after Blythe died." Cuddy shook her head. "I don't envy Marina and Sandra trying to get them to bed in a little while. Maybe . . . maybe Greg will be able to talk to them later, just for a minute, even if he lies." She stared out the window toward the building. Darkness was falling, but the swirling lights of emergency vehicles still lit the scene. "How on earth am I going to handle the girls from the hospital if Greg and Thomas have to be admitted here for a few days?" Maybe they could be transferred later to PPTH if needed, but they were going straight to Philadelphia tonight, no matter what their protests.

"One step at a time, but _you_ aren't going to have to handle it. _We _will. Wait until we know what we have to deal with."

The policeman reappeared at the back of the van. "They've established vocal contact and have a camera in the bathroom, too. The final few braces are being put in place. They've also sent for the helicopter." He looked to Kate. "The plan is to fly your husband to the hospital." Still unconscious, he appeared to be the worst off from distance assessment and from House's reports. "The paramedics are ready. Soon as they finish the final bracing, we'll have the men out of there."

Cuddy stood up. "I want to talk to Greg," she insisted. "And _see_ him, if you've got a camera in there."

"Ma'am, you'd just slow things down. They're almost ready . . ." He paused as his earpiece crackled again. "They're going in."

Everyone spilled out of the van past him, all of the anxious group now on the parking lot, staring at the building. There was a surge of activity around the vehicles up by the door, and overhead, they heard the chopping sound of the rotors slicing the air as the Life Flight appeared from the direction of the city, made a small circle, and then, guided down by police with flashlights, landed on the parking lot in between the van and the building, where it stood, like the rest of them, poised and waiting.


	24. Chapter 24

A/N: Here's an insomnia update. I have vacation this week for my birthday and had originally hoped to get extra chapters in, but it's uncertain at the moment. Mom is not doing well at all this week mentally - bad visit this weekend, extra phone calls yesterday, and I'll be making an extra trip to the facility today. So no promises for this week, but please, send reviews. I could use a pick-me-up.

About the expanding brace/shields, it's something I read about in a book a few years ago. Everything encountered sticks with a writer for future data and has a tendency to jump out later - if there happens to be a reference to a dead raccoon in a well house months or years down the road in a story, that will be another relic of this week. A few mental flies are already buzzing around the possibilities with that. Hopefully I got details right on the braces, but should you ever be trapped in a collapsing building, please consult your own disaster/rescue experts for first-hand professional strategies and assistance. :)

(H/C)

The third brace had barely thumped painstakingly into place when the camera dropped back down out of the room, and a few seconds later, the voice came back up to them through the small hole in the floor. "All right, we're coming in now. STAY STILL! When the medics get in there, they will be working fast, and the best thing you can do is lie still and not try to help them. We'll check you out in a few minutes, but right now, we're just going to be getting you out of that room as quickly as possible."

"It's about time," House shot back. The portion of the crack directly overhead wasn't visible anymore, much of it hidden beyond that obviously tough fabric stretched between the extensions of the braces. Of course, now that he couldn't see the crack, he wondered what exactly it was doing.

In the next moment, there was a horrible rending sound as whatever equipment they were using out there seriously started tearing into the subfloor. Hours of subtlety climaxed in minutes of pure speed. The whole building quivered beneath them, and the ceiling groaned its complaint but held. The shields above caught the particles that otherwise would have sifted down on them, but there was a rattle as of very fine hail, and occasionally, larger chunks could be heard trying unsuccessfully to fall. House and Thomas both lay still, staring at the hidden portion of ceiling above them, as the progress of the rescuers fought its final battle with the progress of collapse.

With a crash, they broke through the floor. House twisted, trying to turn his head enough to see behind him to the middle of the room where the new and rapidly expanding hole was forming. His ribs and leg both snarled at him, and he fell back and lay still. Cuddy, he thought. He would see her in scant minutes. He looked over at Thomas again and wondered if he himself looked that bad.

Thomas was apparently thinking the same. "Think they'll let us stop for a shower and clean clothes before Lisa sees us?"

"I doubt it." House sighed. Hopefully she would be able to see past the blood and grime to the obviously living bodies beneath. The last nine months of therapy with Patterson were really being put to the test today. Of course, she was also going to be mad at him for his earlier lie about his condition. He tried to distract himself from worry by anticipating the rescue sex once they were out of here and out of the hospital. Unfortunately, he thought that rescue sex was several days away. He wasn't going to be capable of much movement at all for the next week or so at least.

There was the clatter of a ladder behind them in the large hole, and with impressive speed, the medics came swarming up, each group heading straight for their assigned target. The first three to emerge into the bathroom went to the far wall for the clerk, but right on their heels, the next team was over beside House and Thomas. House was lying in between Thomas and the wall, and they moved Thomas first, swiftly picking him up and strapping him onto a board. Thomas was lying still and trying to cooperate, but he had started talking to them immediately. "Watch out for Greg's right leg. It could go into a spasm again. And he has broken ribs on the left."

"Shut up and lie still, old man," House snapped. Then the hands were on him, picking him up. He gasped at the white-hot bilateral stab of pain, squeezing him between the two sides, taking his breath away. They _were_ trying to be gentle, but speed was the top priority. He was quickly strapped onto a board, and as his vision cleared, he saw Thomas being lowered on ropes through the floor. The clerk had already disappeared. Then it was his turn. The slanting and swaying motion of the ropes was unpredictable, impossible to brace against, and the board also clipped the side of the hole once during its transit between floors. Both his teeth and his fists were clenched by the time he arrived below, and he was sweating anew. He heard one final tortured crack from the bathroom above, but there was no sound of an avalanche following it. The braces held.

Hands were waiting below to catch him, and he was quickly moved onto a gurney. Then the wheels were rolling; he was still fighting out of the pain too much to track the direction, but it didn't really matter. Any direction was fine as long as it was away from that room.

They stopped, and now more EMS workers were closing in, taking vitals, starting to do triage. House opened his eyes. They were in the main first floor lobby, ironically not far from the security office where that moron of a rent-a-cop earlier today had listened to Thomas' concerns with his polite patronizing air of disbelief.

Thomas. He turned his head, looking around. The old man wasn't far away, right on the gurney next door. "IVs," House started. "He needs fluids. I think he's hypovolemic. He'll probably need a transfusion at the hospital, too; he lost a lot of blood. And we _all_ need antibiotics."

"We'll take care of it, Dr. House. Just relax."

Of course, he didn't, trying to push up a little, looking for Cuddy. She would be coming. He was impressed that they had kept her off the front lines this long, but now that they were freed, she would be here any moment. His ribs stabbed him again, knocking him back.

"Lie still, damn it," Thomas told him. "He has broken ribs on the left side."

"_He_ has a whole slice of the side of his head missing," House tossed back, as if the workers couldn't guess that perfectly well for themselves. One of them was already probing at the T-shirt bandage.

"_Both _of you, be still," one of the paramedics admonished. House felt a prick, a tiny mosquito bite against all the larger pains and all the more noticeable because of its gentle approach. He looked down. Someone was starting an IV on him in his left hand.

"He's the one who needs fluids," he repeated.

"They're working on it," came the reply. "You're my patient, but he has people treating him, too. Just lie still."

Cuddy, he thought. Where was Cuddy?

(H/C)

The earpiece crackled again. "Got them," the police officer reported with a wide smile.

Cuddy took off full speed, sprinting across the parking lot. The others jumped into action, too, and the charge stretched out like horses approaching the finish line at the end of a long race. Jensen caught up with Cuddy just before she reached the main doors, but he didn't go on past her. Kate wasn't far behind them. Cuddy burst through the knot of people at the entrance, barely noticing their presence as she brushed by, and raced into the lobby. The medical workers were obvious, and she charged in that direction.

"Lisa." House spoke even before she managed to see him through the cluster of activity. He had recognized her footsteps. "Lisa, I'm all right."

She broke through the crowd to see him and then stopped, horror clutching at her. He was absolutely covered in blood, among other things. Spots swirled before her eyes for a moment, and she wobbled.

Jensen gripped her arm quickly, holding her up. Wilson came up behind them, panting a little, and he closed in on the other side. Patterson was there, too. "Sit down, Cuddy," Wilson urged, looking around for a bench or something serviceable.

Anger pushed away the dizziness, and the spots retreated. "I don't _need_ to sit down, damn it." She plunged on forward, right up to the side of the gurney, reaching out toward him and then pausing, afraid to hurt him.

His eyes looked back at her, their incomparable blue still there in the debris that coated the rest of his face. "Lisa, it's okay. I'll be all right. Just need a shower." His right hand twitched, and she grasped his fingers and held on tightly.

"Shut up, Greg."

"I swear, most of the blood isn't mine," he told her.

That, of course, cued off her second worry, and she looked around quickly while never letting go of his hand. Thomas wasn't far away. He looked just as bad, but he, too, was looking back at her.

"I'll be okay, Lisa," he told her, sounding annoyingly like his son at the moment.

"Shut up, both of you," she snapped. "How are they really?" she demanded of the nearest EMS worker.

"They're alive, ma'am," he told her. "We're still working out the rest of it, but they're alive."

Wheels were heard, one slightly squeaky, as the third gurney started moving again, heading for the door with Kate hovering alongside anxiously. Her friend was with her.

House looked past Cuddy for the first time to take roll call of the rest of them. He stopped, startled, at Jensen. Wilson he had expected, Patterson he had hoped for; they were here for her. But Jensen? He would have been hours away. "What are you doing here?" he asked the psychiatrist.

"I was worried about you," Jensen replied.

"But you don't live anywhere near. . ." He broke off as Cuddy bent to kiss him lightly, dust and blood and all, halting the protest.

"Let's go," one of the paramedics called. Cuddy immediately stepped back, and the gurneys started rolling.

Wilson dropped back a little behind to exchange a look of mutual concern with Jensen. Even after his attempted warning to Cuddy, _he_ was rocked at how bad the two of them looked. Jensen nodded as if he had spoken. Then both of them hurried on toward the doors after the others.

The ambulances were just outside, open and waiting; the helicopter was lifting off from the parking lot. As the medics stopped to position the patients and prepare for loading, Cuddy reached over to touch Thomas carefully on the shoulder, and he reached up to squeeze her hand. "It will be all right, Lisa," he said. Then she climbed into the ambulance after House.

"We'll meet you at the hospital," Patterson called to her. The ambulance doors shut. Thomas was quickly loaded into the second ambulance, and then they pulled away, lights swirling and sirens starting, heading for the city. Patterson, Jensen, Wilson, and Kate's friend looked at each other, and then silently, they headed back across the parking lot toward their assorted waiting cars.

Back in the building, the leader of the structural analysis and rescue team gave one final look at the gaping hole in the ceiling that led up from the first floor to the bathroom on two. Above and around them, all the carefully placed braces were holding, and while the building still creaked occasionally, everything hadn't yet collapsed. He let out a long sigh and rolled his shoulders, letting the tension start to release. Days like this were the ones that made all the training worthwhile. Turning away from that hole, he headed for his high-tech control center to start packing up, and as a coworker passed, they gave each other a high five.

(H/C)

The ambulance pounded toward Philadelphia from the track north of the city. In the back, Cuddy looked at her husband, wanting, _needing_ to do something. Her whole soul was still trembling. She glanced at the monitors. His pressure was a little low but wasn't falling. The paramedic opened the IV another notch.

"It's _okay_, Lisa," House repeated. His eyes weren't totally focused; she could tell the influence of the Ativan. She reached out to touch him on his arm, and he tensed up, not flinching but deliberately stifling it, as she obviously hit some bruise or injury. She quickly released the pressure.

"Here, ma'am." The paramedic handed her a package of medicated wipes, and relieved to have an assigned task, she pulled one out and started to gently clean some of the dirt and blood away from his face.

Meanwhile, the worker opened his shirt, inspecting for further injuries along his chest. The left side of his ribcage was obviously bruised, the contusion blossoming out from the offended tissues, and Cuddy gasped looking at it.

"Broke a few ribs," House admitted. "I landed on a horse when I fell." She exchanged a worried look with the paramedic, and annoyance crept into his tone. "That _is_ what happened," he insisted. "I bought Rachel a model horse. Landed on it wrong and broke it. And it broke me. So now the track owes us a replacement model horse. Plus the shirts, too, since I had to use them to stop the bleeding. Damned rent-a-cops."

Cuddy kept working at his face. The cleaned areas she was gaining looked a little better, but he also was very pale underneath, and in spite of his disclaimer that this wasn't his blood, he did have several nicks and cuts of his own that were surfacing, both along the right side of his face and on his torso. "How are the girls?" he asked.

"Restless last time I talked to them, but they're holding up pretty well. Sandra and Marina are with them."

"They don't know . . ." He sat up a little, and the lightning bolt of pain knocked him back flat even before Cuddy and the paramedic could push him down.

"Lie _still_, Greg. No, they don't know what happened yet."

He gave a sigh of relief. The pain was intense, even if still slightly at a chemical distance as long as he wasn't trying to move. But the feel of her hands along his face, washing him off, was suddenly so precious that it itself almost took his breath away. She was with him. He wasn't alone anymore. Her hands had a fine quiver to them that worried him, but even so, she had always had a magic touch. Such beautiful, talented hands, taking away pain, giving love in its place. His eyes drifted shut.

The paramedic touched him on the shoulder with annoyingly _non_-magical hands. "Sir, you need to stay awake."

House opened his eyes to give the man a first-class glare. "I'm not concussed; I'm _drugged_. Learn to tell the difference."


	25. Chapter 25

A/N: Here's another update. Hope you enjoy! Someone asked if this story is ending soon. It's on the wind down, yes, although there are a few chapters left. I deliberately hadn't given an idea on the story timing while they were trapped to help keep the suspense, as "story ending soon" at the top kind of defeats "will they get out without further complications?" down in the body of the action. My favorite chapters in this story are the one where a drugged Greg has to let Thomas help him with his leg and the final chapter.

Today is my birthday. I'd love a review.

(H/C)

The ambulance pulled up to the ER, and House was swiftly unloaded. The second ambulance pulled in right beside them, and Cuddy hesitated for just a few seconds, long enough to see Thomas move a foot slightly as the back doors opened, before she raced after her husband down the hall. Thomas was still alive, at least. But there was _so_ much blood. She had to check on him, too, but she couldn't stand the thought of leaving her husband at the moment. Besides, House wasn't likely to be 100% cooperative, even sedated and injured. (But was Thomas?) She wished the others were here already, but lacking sirens, their arrival would take a little longer.

House was quickly wheeled into a room. The doctor was there almost immediately, closing in, one eye on the monitors and the other assessing his patient. He seemed steady and competent. Cuddy looked at the monitors again herself. His vitals weren't normal, but they weren't dangerous, either. Pulse was up some right now, and he was sweating. The rapid transport out of the ambulance and down the hall had jostled him. She squeezed his right hand, the one without the IV, and he looked over at her. "I'm. . ." he started.

"Shut up, Greg," she snapped, not even letting him finish the disclaimer.

The doctor pulled out a penlight and checked his pupils. "He had Ativan for a bad spasm while he was trapped," Cuddy informed him. This was going to complicate evaluating him for a head injury.

"They mentioned that in the summary report on the radio," the doctor replied. "How much was he given?"

Cuddy had no idea, since it was right after that that communication had dropped off. A lot more than his usual dose, obviously. She looked at her husband.

"He said four," House replied.

"Of what size pill?"

Cuddy at least knew that. "0.5. So 2 mg."

"If he can't do that math, we're in trouble," House commented.

The doctor didn't seem offended. In fact, he gave a friendly grin as if sharing the joke while he continued his assessment. "More to the point is whether _you_ can do the math at the moment, Dr. House. What's 12 times 3?"

"36." It took him a few seconds to calculate. "Probably the same time we were in there in hours. Is it still Saturday?"

Cuddy sympathized; the day felt like eternity even to her, and he had been trapped all that time in the dark. "Yes." She looked at her watch. "It's 8:05."

He tried to sit up a little and pull his right hand away from hers to reach across his body. The pain knocked him back, and the pulse on the monitors took another jump. "Damn it, Greg, stay _still_."

His eyes were closed again. "Watch. Get the watch. Don't let them take it."

"You want me to keep your watch?" Confused and worried, she reached over and started to unbuckle it just to pacify him.

"Not _that_ watch. In my left pocket." She pulled it out, and she couldn't help smiling even in this tense moment. The age of it was obvious, and the origin was easy enough to guess. "Is it still ticking?" House asked.

"Yes." She put it up to his ear, and he relaxed a little.

"You hang onto it."

She tucked it carefully into her purse. "I will, Greg. It's perfectly safe."

The doctor had finished his initial exam, enough to convince him that House, while clearly injured, was stable at the moment. "We're really going to have to get you cleaned up before we can get a full idea of injuries." He nodded to a nurse, and she left the room, returning a minute later with a basin.

They stripped his clothes off and bathed him. Their touch was professional, but House cringed at being laid out here naked with his leg on full view to strangers. He was grateful that Cuddy was there; the touch of her hand helped, but this still felt like a violation. Cuddy started her own inventory of cuts, scrapes, and bruises, and it was an extensive one. He would need stitches in a few places himself.

The doctor launched into a series of mental status exam questions, both gauging his answers and trying to distract him. House was getting the correct answers, to Cuddy's relief, but his processing time was definitely slowed. After several minutes of that, the doctor felt along the scar very gently, and House tensed up, leaning against the Ativan now, hoping to avoid another spasm.

"What pain meds have you had today?" the doctor asked.

"I took Vicodin and ibuprofen about noon with lunch. Took two more Vicodin later."

"When?"

House tried to shrug and hurt himself doing it. "The lights had already gone off. It had to be _hours_ ago. Thornton was still unconscious; that was when I set his shoulder. It was after I finally got the bleeding stopped." He looked over at Cuddy. "He dislocated his left shoulder. They need to know that."

"We'll tell them, Greg." Hopefully Thomas could tell them himself.

"They need to _know_ that," he insisted. Someone started putting him into a hospital gown, and Cuddy helped. They were careful, but it knocked the pain up a little even so.

The doctor looked at a nurse, who was just heading out of the room to empty the basin. "Would you please tell them that Mr. Thornton had a dislocated shoulder?"

"Of course." She left the room.

The doctor abandoned House's leg to make another tour, his third, of his patient's skull, fingers carefully probing through the thinning hair. He stopped at the slight swelling and felt around it. "Does that hurt?"

"No." At least, if it did, it was not even noticeable compared to the leg and ribs.

The doctor spoke to another nurse. "Get him booked for a CT of the head. Also a portable chest x-ray to look at those ribs." He glanced at pulse oximetry again. House's breath sounds were even, and his sat wasn't low. Probably no punctured lung, but the ribs were definitely broken. He could feel a slight irregularity himself even on physical exam, although he wasn't really applying pressure. House tensed up any time he came near the ribs or his leg. Ativan or not, the pain was intense. "Give me a number on pain right now."

"5 . . . 8," he amended under Cuddy's glare. "I don't want morphine," he insisted. "Hits me too much mentally. I don't want to be totally out of reach tonight." He was still looking at his wife.

"Greg, you _need_ something."

"No," he replied, digging in.

The doctor looked from one to the other of them, then back at the monitors. "What about OxyContin, Dr. House?''

He considered, then slowly nodded. He wouldn't want to be doing a differential under the influence of it, but it wasn't as hazy mentally as the morphine. He was worried about Cuddy.

"Of course, there's a _lot_ of room to step up on the anti-inflammatories." The doctor studied his leg again. "You're usually only on ibuprofen as an NSAID?"

"It _helps_," House snapped. "It's enough to tell a difference with it." Cuddy stayed silent. She had twice in the last month suggested carefully that they amend his med regimen and go up a few notches, not with the Vicodin but with the others. His reaction had been about what she expected, and she had been leaving him room since to think about it once the idea was planted.

"Well for _now_, at least, you need something much stronger. Any objections to that?" House sighed and shook his head carefully. "Normally, with this level of musculoskeletal insult on top of a chronic injury, I'd suggest a short course of steroids, too, but that might interfere with healing on the cuts."

"Wouldn't recommend steroids," House agreed. After a moment, he grudgingly admitted, "I use Flexeril on bad days."

"Okay. I'll write some med orders, and we'll try to get you a little more comfortable."

"And antibiotics."

"_Definitely_ antibiotics. We'll keep you on IV antibiotics at first."

The nurse re-entered. "They know about Mr. Thornton's shoulder. He just went for a head CT."

"Is he doing okay?" Cuddy asked.

"Yes, ma'am. He's stable."

"He needs a transfusion," House repeated. "He lost all that blood."

At that moment, the portable x-ray machine was wheeled into the room. A rib series was taken quickly, and by the time those stat films were up for review, someone else had come in with the extra meds. House took them without protest; his eyes were on the x-rays.

"Three broken ribs," the doctor announced. "No pneumothorax." He looked from the films to House, wondering how the hell the man had managed to set a dislocated shoulder after his own injuries. He turned to Cuddy, who was wound up painfully tightly right now. "I don't _think_ he has a significant head injury, but we'll check. He's going to be very sore. I want to admit him for observation, at least for tonight."

"_Only_ for tonight," House insisted. "Got to get home to the girls."

"You'll stay as long as you need to," Cuddy countered. "We'll handle the girls somehow."

Another ER worker stepped in. "They'll be ready for the CT soon."

"All right. I'll see you afterward, Dr. House, and we'll do some stitching. And it is an honor to meet you, even though I hate doing it like this. I heard you at a conference about five years ago."

"Which conference?" House asked, curious.

"Atlantic City. You spoke on things which can be misdiagnosed as lupus."

House grinned. "It's never lupus."

Two more orderlies appeared, and the gurney was wheeled out, the journey much more careful now, less focused on speed. They were trying diligently not to jostle him. As they were rolling it down the hall, Cuddy spotted Jensen. He was standing in the door from the waiting room, looking worried. She darted over, still keeping an eye on her husband. "Could you do something for me?"

"Of course," he replied. He was looking after House himself. Patterson and Wilson got up and hurried to the door of the waiting room as they saw Cuddy. Kate's friend had gone to the surgery waiting room to be with Kate; the betting clerk had been taken straight to CT and then the OR on his arrival.

"He has three broken ribs," Cuddy filled in. "_Lots_ of cuts and bruises; vitals are stable but not normal. He's going for a head CT now. Dr. Jensen, would you please check on Thomas?"

"Sure." Cuddy ran after the gurney.

It took Jensen a few minutes to find Thomas' room. Thornton was lying still on the gurney; he looked sleepy. He had been cleaned up by now, and his doctor was just starting to approach that long, gaping gash on his temple.

"How are you doing?" Jensen asked.

Thomas turned his head toward the door as he heard him, and the doctor sighed. "Hold still unless you want zigzag stitches." By tone, it apparently wasn't the first time Thomas had been told to keep still. Jensen quickly entered the room and stood at the foot of the gurney, easily visible on a straight line. There was a unit of blood hanging as well as the IV fluids.

"How is Greg?" Thomas asked.

"He's stable. He has three broken ribs. They just took him back for a head CT. How are you doing?" Jensen repeated.

"I just had a CT myself. Other than that, mostly bruises." Jensen looked to the doctor. "You can talk to him," Thomas said, giving permission.

"CT reading by the radiologist will be stat, but it isn't up yet. He's got at least a mild concussion, hopefully not more. Very banged up, several cuts, especially on his back. This cut on the temple is by far the worst of them. He was hypotensive when he arrived, and his hemoglobin is low; we're transfusing a few units, and he should hopefully feel a lot better after that. We have an order in for an x-ray of the shoulder, but he got the head CT first. His dislocated shoulder seems to be reduced. He might need a CT of that to check for more internal damage if it's still bothering him in a few weeks, but we don't like doing multiple scans at once unless we have to. Too much radiation and contrast. Overall, he seems to be in remarkably good shape for what he went through."

"Did they give Greg some more pain meds?" Thomas asked.

"Dr. Cuddy didn't say, but I'm sure they'll take care of that. She wouldn't let them miss it."

"And how is _she_ doing?"

"Remarkably well, I'd say. This really shook her up, though." Jensen reached out to give Thomas a pat on the foot. "You were wonderful earlier dealing with his spasm."

Thomas shuddered, suddenly looking much less sleepy. "I was absolutely terrified."

"I can't imagine what that was like. But well done. You saved him."

"Finally," Thomas said.

"Hold _still_," the ER doctor admonished.

Jensen smiled at him. "I'm going to go try to find Dr. Cuddy and give her an update on you, but I'll be back. Okay? Hang in there." Thomas nodded, to the annoyance of the stitching doctor, and Jensen left the small ER room, looking for someone to ask where the CT was.


	26. Chapter 26

A/N: Several people have asked about future stories. There are at least two more in the Pranks universe, but the first is still in the oven, and the second is still in the mixing bowl. So there might well be a gap in between Father's Day and the next.

And be not afraid, we will get some action and an answer for Wilson and Sandra before the end of this story.

Thanks for the birthday wishes and the virtual chocolate cake. Continued good thoughts for Mom are appreciated. This week has not been a good one for her at all.

Enjoy this update.

(H/C)

Cuddy paced in the hall outside the CT room as if on a short tether tied to the door. More waiting. At least he was right in there, not trapped in the dark in a collapsing building anymore. And while a long way beyond "a little banged up," none of his injuries seemed life-threatening so far, and his mind appeared to be functioning even if a little drugged. She would feel much better once they got this scan of his head, though. She didn't think she would ever forget him collapsing into seizures in front of her after the car accident. He had seemed functional then, too, nobody including himself realizing that he was bleeding into his brain the whole time.

And Thomas. What about Thomas? The amount of blood was frightening, and if most of it didn't come from her husband, he had to be the source. And he was 75. Jensen would track him down, and she should have an update soon. She was so grateful to Jensen for being here. Patterson, too, but Patterson was a complete stranger to Thomas. No, it had to be either Jensen or Wilson with him, and Jensen was the more straightforward choice. Wilson was still fascinated with House's father and couldn't resist trying to soak up new information any time the topic came up.

What had happened between them in there during all those hours alone together? She hoped but was afraid to ask. There was a change in House's attitude, much more concern, and she didn't think it was merely medical instincts.

She paused momentarily in her restless trek to pull the watch out of her purse and examine it thoroughly. Very old, obviously his grandfather's. As she turned it in her hands, she noticed the words engraved on the back. _This is your time, my son._ Words from _his_ father? If so, then both the writer and the recipient were dead. The watch ticked on without its original owner. Their time had run out, at least in one case far sooner than it should have.

How much more time did he have? Or Thomas? She wished she knew a definite figure in advance on that so that she could prepare. Hell, she wished she knew a definite figure in advance so that she could fight it. With some sort of precognition, she never would have let them out of the house today.

But was living shut up in the house living? _Don't let worry about the future steal the present_, Patterson had told her several times.

Pacing in the hall outside the CT room, it was impossible not to worry. Both of them hurt in one frighteningly swift blow, the bright future she had imagined just earlier today suddenly at risk. And what about the girls? She had to call again to check on the girls. But not right now, not with this scan in progress. She would never be able to keep up a good enough front to be convincing.

Jensen rounded the corner of the hall up ahead, and she headed for him urgently, for the first time getting more than 10 feet away from that door. "He's stable," the psychiatrist informed her even before she reached him. "He's had a CT scan of the head, but the reading wasn't up yet. Probably a mild concussion. He was alert and responsive, though. Lots of cuts, the doctor said, but the one on his head is the worst. I saw that one, and it is a bad one, but the bleeding has stopped. They're giving him a transfusion. The doctor said he was in remarkably good shape for what he went through. He had a dislocated shoulder, but that's been reduced."

She gave a sigh of relief. "Greg said that. He set it himself in there." She looked back toward the door. "How could he possibly have managed that with his leg plus three broken ribs?"

Jensen smiled. "That doesn't surprise me at all. He's got to be the most stubborn defier of physical limits I've ever met." He took a step closer and put a hand on her arm. "Hopefully they're going to be okay given a little time."

She turned toward the door again. "We don't know that yet."

"We don't know anything different, either, and all the data so far is encouraging." She fingered the watch, and he noticed it. "What's that?"

She handed it over. "I think it belonged to his grandfather. He was very worried about it. Insisted on me taking it for safekeeping."

Jensen studied it, including the inscription on the back. "_Nice_." He thought of his own grandfather's desk in his office. There was nothing quite like an heirloom from your ancestors. He handed it back to her.

"Did Thomas seem like himself?" she asked, tucking the watch back into her purse.

"Yes. He's not the best patient in the world, though. Those two definitely are alike."

Cuddy didn't know whether to be reassured or exasperated so settled for both. "You'd better get back there. And tell him I said to. . ."

At that moment, the door opened, and she immediately dropped her own train of thought as she hurried back to her husband. She made it before the gurney had fully cleared the door, reaching for his hand again, _needing_ to touch him and feel the solid, warm life there.

His fingers tightened around hers. "It's okay, Lisa." He seemed a little less perched on eggshells in the bed. The meds were taking effect.

"Is the pain a little better?" she asked.

"Yes." He looked past her to spot Jensen, and the psychiatrist fell into line on the other side of the bed as the orderlies started wheeling him down the hall.

Jensen studied House thoroughly. He looked _much_ better cleaned up. Still pale and with a few cuts and bruises visible but no longer straight out of a horror movie. Jensen soaked up the image, filing it mentally, letting it replace the earlier one right after their rescue. "I checked on Thornton. He's probably got a mild concussion; they were waiting for the reading on his CT. He's getting a transfusion, too."

"Good. Damned idiot. He did too much in there." Jensen's and Cuddy's eyes met across the gurney in silent eloquence.

"They were just stitching up the cut on his head. He has several other cuts, but that one was the worst. The doctor thought he was in remarkably good shape considering. His shoulder seems to be reduced."

House rolled his eyes. "I _know_ his shoulder is reduced. I did it. Even in the dark, I couldn't have screwed that up."

They entered the elevator, making a full house of it. House closed his eyes briefly, then opened them again, looking at Jensen. "You drove clear down here," he said, bewildered.

"Of course. You should have heard Cathy on the phone when I was giving them an update. She was about ready to take off on her bicycle to come down." House grinned, then turned back to Cuddy. He changed focus a little too quickly there, and his ribs stabbed at him.

"The girls," he said once he caught his breath. "I need to talk to the girls."

"Let's wait for the reading on the CT," Cuddy suggested.

"I'm _all right_, damn it." He moved too far and flinched again.

"If we wait for the reading on the CT, Sandra and Marina can get the results on that. It would reassure them," Jensen pointed out.

House sighed. "I need to talk to them and tell them I'll be home tomorrow."

"That's up to the doctors," Cuddy repeated firmly.

"I _am_ a doctor. Better one than any of these. A few extra meds, and I'll be fine."

The elevator opened, and they exited onto the ground floor near the ER again. Jensen gave House a careful pat on the shoulder and then peeled off. "Which reminds me, I'd better go back and stay with Thornton." He lengthened stride.

"How does me being a doctor remind him to stay with Thornton?" House asked Cuddy.

"Shut up, Greg."

(H/C)

"Right, I'll let you know when we have more. Bye." Wilson ended the call and put his cell phone away. The ring box was still in his pocket, and he pulled it out and opened it to study the diamond.

"Tell me about her," Patterson invited. The two of them were sitting next to each other in the ER waiting room.

He smiled, picturing Sandra. "She's not like any of the others." Patterson thought that was an odd starting point but left it alone. "She's sincere. Cares about everybody - she's a nurse. She really _listens_ to you when you talk." Wilson squirmed a little on the chair. That quality had been one of the hardest to know how to deal with. He was used to being the listener and the helper himself. "She's serious, but she has a good sense of humor, too. And she is gorgeous." He pulled his cell phone out again and called up a picture.

Patterson leaned over a little to look. "She is beautiful." Not classic, not polished, but she had that natural attractiveness both of body and of character shining through.

Wilson changed pictures. "That's our son. Daniel Gregory."

"How old is he?"

"Nine months. He's got a few words now, and he's pulling up on everything. Almost ready to walk. You should see House's girls with him; I think they're fascinated at somebody smaller than they are."

Patterson smiled. "Sounds like a wonderful little family. So you're planning to make it official?" She nodded toward the ring.

"If I ever get a chance to. I've had the ring for a few weeks, but the moment just hasn't happened yet. I was determined to do it this weekend, but Daniel was extra fussy all day, and then when he finally got down for a nap, I was _right_ on the edge of it, actually had started the speech, and that's when the phone call from Jensen came about the explosion." Patterson looked sympathetic. "Yep, that's the timing I've had all day. One minute later on that phone call, and I would have already asked." The most intense worry over his friend was starting to retreat a little; while broken ribs were painful, they only required time, and Cuddy hadn't seemed like the report from the doctor so far was too serious. With truly bad news, she would have been a basket case. But worry's retreat left room for frustration. "Once this is all over and I'm sure things are stable, I'll have to be sure to point out to House how his crisis interrupted my proposal."

Patterson's sympathetic look faded. "Why?" she asked.

"Just . . . it seems like there's always something with him that . . . well, I _know_ it isn't his fault that this nutcase turned up today, but . . . just as a funny point. Something ironic. Not that . . . besides, he'd enjoy the joke." Patterson sat there silently taking in his stammered explanation, and her very lack of debate was making him uncomfortable. House _would _appreciate the coincidence, damn it. It wasn't like Wilson wanted to make him feel guilty for getting caught in a collapsing building and ruining his day. And Wilson _had _dropped everything and been thinking only of his friend's safety after that. He . . . damn it, those eyes that Patterson had were too perceptive.

Saved by the TV. He noted the subtitle _Explosion at Parx_ on the screen and popped up like a shot, turning up the volume and stuffing the ring back in his pocket at the same time.

"Breaking news about the explosion at Parx Casino and Racetrack early this afternoon. The names of the injured are still being withheld from the press pending notification of all of their families, but we are told by a police spokesman that there were 13 people injured. All of those trapped in the building have now been freed, and the only fatality was the bomber. The bomber's name has been released just moments ago. Dale Barrett from Pittsburgh, age 35." A picture that was obviously a jail shot came up. "Barrett had worked with explosives at a former job. He had a history of charges for domestic violence and had restraining orders on file from three women, and he was currently wanted as a suspect for a murder in Pittsburgh three days ago of a woman whom he was living with. Maria Sanchez was found on Thursday by a friend, who said that Sanchez had told her she intended to leave Barrett and was going to his house the night before to get her things, thinking he would be at work on an evening shift job. Apparently, Barrett had been fired that day and was at home instead. Sanchez had been beaten to death with a hammer. Barrett had not been seen since. While details are still being put together on what happened today, we are told that although the Department of Homeland Security will continue to investigate, this is not thought to be terrorism but a personal grudge against someone at the track. More details as we have them."

Wilson sat back down next to Patterson. "Wow. What do you make of that?"

She looked fascinated. "From Kate's description, he sounds like a megalomaniac. If he killed his current girlfriend in a fit of rage and didn't think he could escape charges, he might have decided to go out in a blaze of vengeance instead. He would still win that way. It's twisted logic, but vengeance even with suicide would be a lot more attractive than prison. And the officer said that Josh had been employee of the month, so his job was public knowledge on an internet search."

Wilson shuddered, suddenly thinking of Daniel growing up in a world with people like Barrett in it. "Kate said he told her she'd have to live forever knowing Josh was dead because of her. Thankfully the bomb must have gone off while he was still coming into the bathroom and wasn't up close to them yet."

"I'm glad the police are withholding names for a while," Patterson said. "If Dr. Cuddy had run into the media this afternoon . . ."

Wilson chuckled. "I'd back her against the media any day. But I was glad they were holding the press back, too." He pulled out his cell phone and called up a picture of his family, all three of them together. "I wonder how many people there are like that in the world?"

"No idea," Patterson said. "It is frightening to think of sometimes. But I am convinced that there are more good ones."

He turned to her. "Do you think Cuddy is going to be all right?"

She tightened up, the confidentiality shield clicking into place. He had seen that so often from Jensen. "I think she's dealt with today very well so far. But she's going to need her friends and her support system."

He nodded. "I'll be there. So, tell me about Jensen. What was he like back in med school when he was young?"

She launched into fond stories of the past, and it was only later that he realized how little new information he had actually been given.


	27. Chapter 27

"A _little banged up_?" Cuddy paused in her restless not-quite-pacing beside the hospital bed to glare at her husband.

House smiled at her. Inwardly, he was relieved. She was already mad at him after only a few hours at the hospital, the day not even technically over yet. She wasn't shutting down and retreating into hypercontrol like she had back with the President last year; she was _pissed_. This was so much healthier. "I'm sorry," he told her, his expression and tone the perfect picture of contrition.

Cuddy sighed and studied him. He lay in the hospital bed with those incomparable eyes sparkling even if not as razor sharp in their focus as usual. The eyes were reassuring, but the nicks and bruises visible intermittently on his face and much more along the length of his right arm as it rested on top of the blanket could not be ignored. Part of her wanted to seize him as fiercely as any "sorry" they had ever shared, and John wasn't anywhere near her motives. The other part of her was afraid at the moment that she would hurt him by doing it. And _he_, damn it, even injured and drugged and so worn out by now that he was almost sinking into the bed, realized her dilemma and had the audacity to be deriving some perverse enjoyment from it.

She turned to Thomas in the other bed. He was even more visibly battered and every bit as worn out, but he was watching with a layer of interest beneath the legitimate family concern, as if part of him were soaking up interactions for later analysis. He gave her a grin that was annoyingly similar to his son's just then. "We're going to be okay, Lisa," he repeated.

Okay. _Going to_ be okay, given time. That was the judgment of every doctor who had seen them so far. The head scans had come back clean, and while they were both very bruised and cut up, especially Thomas, everything would heal. They were both being held overnight for observation as well as IV antibiotics, but if all went well, it was anticipated that they could be released tomorrow.

Once they had been settled in the double room and after a quick consultation with the two psychiatrists on approach, House had used Cuddy's cell phone to call Princeton. Rachel had finally fallen asleep after a long battle but was roused for the call; Abby had fallen asleep a little earlier than her sister and had woken back up herself by that point for another round of worry about her parents. He had talked to both of the girls, not going into details or explanations but assuring them that everybody would be home the next day. It wouldn't be possible to hide the injuries, but Jensen and Patterson both agreed that telling them they were hurt with the men right there obviously alive as reassurance would be better than covering it in a phone call while they were still absent and then expecting the girls to sleep in the meantime.

Now the girls were reassured somewhat, and Jensen had also updated Cathy and Melissa. The frantic, adrenaline current of the day was fading to a trickle. House leaned back into the pillow. With his ribs bandaged up and extra meds on board, he was down to about a 4 at the moment as long as he didn't try to move. It felt like paradise compared to the long afternoon of captivity trying to balance on that tightrope of pain. Exhaustion was dragging at him as much as the Ativan by now, but he wanted to make sure Cuddy would be okay tonight.

Wilson looked at his watch. "It's 10:30," he announced. "None of us ever ate tonight. Why don't I go down to the cafeteria and get something for you, Cuddy?" He knew she wouldn't be leaving this room, but she did need food before she finally fell asleep herself.

"You're staying, of course." House didn't state it as a request, but it was one just the same, and Wilson heard the hidden subtext.

"I'll be here all night. Sandra will be tied up helping Marina at your place with the girls anyway, so she isn't going home, and I'm not about to head back to Princeton without you. I'd hate to be the next person who _isn't_ you who walks through your front door. Abby and Rachel would never forgive me for it."

House's lips quirked. "Good point," he said. "By the way, about Sandra, did you pop the question yet?"

Patterson was visible in Wilson's line of sight against the far wall of the room standing next to Jensen. Her body language didn't change at all, nor did she specifically look at him, but she was listening with every inch of her, just a quiet, unavoidable presence. Damn it. "I hadn't had a chance yet," he replied simply.

House sighed, and a brief flicker of what might have been guilt flashed through his eyes so quickly that Wilson wasn't sure he had seen it. "Lots of weekend happened even before this afternoon," he noted. "Stop looking for a perfect moment. The world doesn't make them."

Wilson rolled his eyes. "Nice thought, House. Ever think of going into writing greeting cards?"

Jensen stepped in. "I think that's a wonderful idea, James. The food, I mean." He looked over at Patterson. "Are you staying tonight, Ruth?"

She nodded firmly. "I'll be here." Wilson gave a silent sigh of relief. He wasn't sure that he alone would be able to deal with Cuddy if she totally flipped once the men were out tonight. Of course, he would do his best, as always, but he'd already seen how well she responded to Patterson therapeutically. Patterson went on. "Why don't you head on home, Michael? I think things are under control here."

Jensen hesitated, but now that things were settling down, now that he was convinced House would be okay, the idea did have appeal, and House saw it. "Go on," he ordered, turning to look toward the door as if indicating the way.

The psychiatrist read his thought. "Melissa didn't have any problem with me driving down this afternoon. In fact, she would have come with me except that Dr. Cuddy doesn't really know her that well. She was very worried about you herself."

House looked back, surprised. He weighed Melissa's concern, then set it aside for a more digestible subject. He was too tired at the moment to wrap his head around Melissa wanting to come herself. "Then what's eating you if everything is peachy with her?"

Jensen shifted his weight from one foot to the other, looking a little sheepish. "I do have a bit of explaining to do. _Not _about coming down here for you. My mistake was earlier when I suggested this morning that Melissa and I go to the OTB today as a nice day out for ourselves, since Cathy was going somewhere with a friend. I didn't tell her I had any more motive behind it than that, just something for the two of us, nothing about you going to the races, but I . . ."

"Wanted to keep an eye on me?" House asked, a thin edge of annoyance beneath his tone. Thomas was looking fascinated.

"I wanted to _think_ about you. Not baby sitting. Just good wishes sent long distance; there's a lot of difference there. But apparently, I wasn't as good at hiding some ulterior motive as I thought, and Melissa was wondering what was up already before the explosion happened." The psychiatrist shook his head. "She's a big racing fan, a lot more than I am. She would have enjoyed the day watching the races anyway, probably a lot more if she hadn't been trying to figure out what I was hiding. I could have just said you were at Philly today with no further explanation, and she would have known why I was so interested in that track." He paused again, studying House, weighing how much that hypothetical information sharing might have bothered him.

Not much. There was trust along with exasperation in House's tone. "So what are you hanging around a hospital room for? Get back home and face the music."

"She did say it was okay," Jensen assured him. "But we do need to talk."

Wilson nodded approvingly. "Take her flowers; that might help the apology. Maybe you could find some at a 24-hour grocery or such on the drive back. Or chocolate."

Patterson shook her head. "Take her _you_. Get going, Michael."

Jensen was still watching House, and he relaxed a little. "All right, I'm leaving. But I am cancelling our session Friday. Don't even bother trying to drive to Middletown."

"I'll be a lot better by then," House protested.

"Like hell," Cuddy fired up. "If you're going, I'll drive you myself."

"Not unless you both want to drive up just to stare at my locked office door for an hour, because _I _won't be there." Jensen walked over to the edge of the bed and put a hand on the rail, not touching House with all the bruises but coming close to it. "Good night, and take care of yourself." He didn't bother saying that House could call him if he needed. At this stage, it went without saying.

"Get out of here," House grumbled.

Jensen turned from him to Thomas, looking at him silently for a long moment, then headed for the door of the room. Once he had left, Wilson returned to his previous topic. "Do you want something to eat, Dr. Patterson?" he asked. He didn't bother taking Cuddy's order. He knew well enough, and she wasn't ready to think about menu yet, but hopefully she would eat it once it arrived.

"Yes, thank you. Grilled cheese if they have it. Something with cheese would be my first choice, anyway."

"I'll do my best." Wilson turned away.

"Hey," House protested. "You didn't ask us."

"You two need to go to sleep." Both of them were putting up a strenuous battle against it already, and he thought only their concern over Cuddy was holding them awake by now. "And you're on IVs anyway. Behave yourselves tonight, and I'll see if I can find some good pancakes in the morning." Leaving the hospital room, he headed for the elevator, and as he stood waiting for it to arrive in the quiet, late-night hospital hall, he started to realize just how tired he was himself. He reached into his pocket, brushing the ring box again, then took out the phone and called Sandra yet again.

She picked up quickly, whispering. "James?"

"Everything's fine; nothing new. How are the girls?"

He heard Marina's murmur in the background, then Sandra's soft footsteps as she moved out of the room. "Just managed to get them back to sleep. For now, at least. Talking to House really helped, but they are worried."

"I hope Daniel is cooperating, at least."

"He's out like a light. I think he got all his fussing and restlessness out this morning. He hasn't been a problem this afternoon except trying to crawl after the cat, and she won't let him, and he gets mad. You know how she does."

Wilson grinned, picturing the scene perfectly. Belle was a master at staying _just_ out of reach. He'd swear sometimes that the cat had House's sense of humor. "I just wanted to let you know I'm staying up here tonight."

"Of course. Cuddy needs you. Try to get some sleep yourself, though."

"I will, as much as you can get in a hospital chair." He brushed the ring again, thinking of House's words about giving up searching for the perfect moment. But no, not over a cell phone. Damn it, he refused to stoop that low. He could do a lot better than this at setting the mood.

"Are you okay, James?" Sandra asked.

"Yes. I'm heading down on a meal run. I just wanted to talk to you for a few minutes alone."

And, as he stepped into the elevator, he did, not about the ring, but just mutual reassurance about their friends and the day, both of them starting to unwind together, and he was feeling a little less windblown by the time he found the cafeteria.

Back up in the hospital room, Patterson moved toward the door herself. "Dr. Cuddy, could I talk to you alone for a minute?" Cuddy fired up in instant denial, looking at her husband, and Patterson went on quickly. "You can still see them. I know you aren't going anywhere tonight, and you don't need to." But Patterson also knew that House and Thomas were at the limit and well past it, and Cuddy's constant bedside hovering was making demands on them that didn't need to be made right now.

Cuddy's lower lip tightened as she debated, and House reached out to give her hand a gentle squeeze. The light, intimate, reassuring touch contrasted sharply with his tone. "Go on, Lisa. We're aren't going anywhere, and you'll be blocking the exit against escape if we tried, anyway."

Slowly, she moved over to the doorway, stopping just in it with one eye still firmly on the two beds, and Patterson dropped her voice for a private conference. "I just wanted to say, I'm here if you want to talk tonight, but . . ."

"I'm not sure. . ." Cuddy started, just as softly.

Patterson took her hands and pushed on. "But I don't really think you need to. Tonight, you just need to sit and watch them breathe and tell yourself that today is over. But I am here. And whenever you _do_ need to talk, I'm still here."

Cuddy trembled briefly as if a breeze had passed through the doorway. So hard to believe that today was over.

"It is," Patterson answered the thought. "Today is over. And they'll both heal."

Thomas watched the tete-a-tete in the doorway, then turned to his son. "Is she going to be all right?" he asked, just as softly. The two women couldn't have heard them any more than they could have heard the women.

House was looking at his wife with concern himself, but he nodded. "I think so. She's mad at us. That's good; she wouldn't even admit she'd been shaken up that other time for almost a week. I think she's doing really well, considering."

Thomas settled back into the bed. "Good. And we'll see the girls tomorrow and talk to them." He let the silence lengthen for a moment, studying his son. House's eyes were drifting shut. "So, Greg, we'll have to do this again sometime."

House chuckled and hurt his ribs doing it, but overall, it was worth it. "Seeing the girls," he said sleepily. "The track owes us another model horse."

"Plus the shirts," Thomas agreed softly. "We'll be sure to hold them to that." It was almost painful to fight against the void now, but he waited still, watching his son, until Greg's breathing leveled out and he slid into sleep. "Good night, Greg," Thomas told him. Then, finally, for the first time in this whole taut afternoon, he stopped fighting and simply let go. "Good night, Emily." And it was. A _good_ night. After everything, they were alive, and Greg would be okay.

Patterson was keeping the low, undemanding but persistent conversation going in the doorway, but she saw Cuddy's attention suddenly shift, and she broke off in mid sentence and turned to look at the men herself.

"They're asleep," Cuddy said. "At least, I think . . ." She quickly tip-toed back into the room, going up to the beds one by one for a closer anxious inspection.

"They're asleep," Patterson agreed. "And that's the best thing for them right now." She sat down in one of the visitor's chairs against the wall. "Come here and sit down."

And for the first time since exiting the ambulance, Cuddy did.


	28. Chapter 28

A/N: Short update. Thanks to the several of you who asked if things were okay. Mom's still in a rough patch but no worse, at least, but this last week got complicated with other crises. If I wrote last weekend and Monday down as a fic, people would never believe it. Anyway, I'm still around, but things are complicated and not quite stable. You get it as you can. The story is winding down anyway, so at least you aren't left hanging with the men trapped. Next chapter up will be Kate, the track officials, and the story of what _really_ happened in that bathroom starts to be revealed.

(H/C)

"Not too bad," Thomas said.

Cuddy gritted her teeth. It was Sunday morning, and the doctor was doing rounds. House and Thomas both were obviously even more stiff and sore this morning; the whole way they lay carefully in the beds advertised the fact. It would take a few days to summit the mountain of musculoskeletal insult after yesterday's trauma and start the descent to true improvement. However, neither of the men had any intention of mentioning the fact. Instead, they were both totally fixated on getting discharged, and nothing at all that might even possibly interfere with that was going to be confessed to.

The doctor gave a sigh himself. "It's _expected_ that everything would bother you more the day after. You don't have to lie about how you're feeling." He examined the long, stitched gash on Thomas' temple, then shifted over to House, whose exam so far had only been long distance.

House tensed up before the hands even approached him, not just with anticipation of pain but dread that the doctor would want to inspect his leg and that his scar would be exposed during the exam. Patterson touched Wilson on the arm. "Let's go down and find breakfast. Their trays should be here soon, but we need something ourselves. We'll be back, Dr. Cuddy."

"And leave us to the hospital crap while you eat from the cafeteria. Nice," House snarled. "You could at least bring back some of the good stuff for us, too."

"It _is_ cooked in the same hospital," Wilson pointed out, then relented. "I'll see what I can do." With a few glances back, he left the room. He had really wanted to hear the doctor's conclusions firsthand himself.

House relaxed minutely as they left. Of course, Wilson had seen his leg plenty of times, but Patterson had not, and at least _one_ member of the group would have something left to the imagination. He looked over at Thomas, remembering yesterday in the bathroom, those hands right on his leg, exploring the crater, massaging out the offended muscles. Even in the dark, it would have been laid out fully, telling its own story, plus the severe spasm itself. Nothing at all had been left to the imagination there. Thomas hadn't mentioned that episode since; House was dreading the moment he did.

The doctor first checked both pupils, then examined the binding around his ribs and the cuts and bruises, working down. Finally, he reached for the blanket to move it aside far enough to inspect the thigh. House took a deep breath and flinched as his ribs objected, and his eyes went straight back over to the next bed. Thomas was watching him steadily. Watching _him_, his face, not his leg.

Cuddy held his hand as the professional, impersonal exam took place. The doctor was gentle but obviously also professionally interested. He backed away a symbolic half step after a few minutes and moved the blanket over again. "You're going to have to keep up the stronger meds for several days to help your body, especially your leg, process this insult."

"I _know_ that, moron." Which he did, much as he hated the idea. He was going to have to have some extra chemical help at least in this week to keep the damned leg from seizing up every time he even _thought_ of putting weight on it.

The doctor plunged on, ignoring his tone. "Have you ever considered an official pain management consultation?" The man was having trouble correlating what House was on routinely with the appearance of his leg, especially only using ibuprofen as a chronic NSAID. Surely someone could do a little better than that.

The blue lasers were pure ice. "I _had_ one. Years ago after it first happened. End of story."

Cuddy tightened her grip on his hand. "What do you really think about discharge today?" she asked the doctor. Dealing with the girls would be a nightmare if this extended another night, but she cringed just looking at those bruises.

The doctor obligingly took the offered change of subject. "They're both going to have a lot of trouble moving at first, but aside from that, they seem stable. I think they'll be all right out of the hospital, just not as comfortable. Things should heal given time." He looked back over to the other bed. "_You_, Mr. Thornton, are in remarkable general condition for a 75-year-old."

House, a few decades younger, of course, extended that thought well beyond the doctor's intent, and the ice in his expression froze even another few degrees. Still, there was an odd emotion that ran along underneath the surface at the doctor's words, warming him a little. He didn't want to admit yet that it was relief and reassurance. He would never forget finding Blythe dead that morning after Christmas. Not that Thornton was the same thing at all as Blythe, but still, it was good to hear an official medical opinion, even if from a potential moron.

Thomas smiled at the doctor. "I'm not planning to head for the grave just yet," he replied. He shifted a little. "Might cut out the 4 1/2-mile walk for a few days, though."

The doctor smiled back. "That would be wise."

Thomas nodded. "Definitely. At least until Tuesday or Wednesday." Cuddy groaned softly, and House slowly started to move on past the exam and conversation about his leg.

Another thought crashed in rudely, and Cuddy tensed up so abruptly that _she_ hurt House's hand doing it. He looked at her. "What's wrong, Lisa?"

"Thomas was supposed to be flying back to St. Louis at the end of the weekend," she stated. She released House and moved over to nail Thornton visually to the bed, pinning him down against escape. "You _can't_, damn it. You're not anywhere near in good enough shape to be unsupervised." Her breathing started to accelerate as she progressively wound up.

The doctor stepped in firmly. "Absolutely not. He doesn't need to be flying immediately after a concussion. Releasing them to rest and recuperate is one thing; putting him straight on a plane is another. You live alone?" he asked.

Thomas nodded with a quick flash of the old sadness across his face, but he was more concerned about Cuddy at the moment than his memories. "I can stay a few more days, Lisa, as long as your guest room is open."

Cuddy didn't even look at her husband for a consultation. This wasn't up for debate, not that she thought he would have and meant it, but this wasn't even up for his damned stubborn trying to avoid admitting how much things mattered yet. "Yes. You are _not_ leaving tonight, damn it. Cancel the flight."

"Okay, I will. Relax, Lisa."

The doctor looked from one patient to the other. "He needs somebody with him for a few days."

"All _right_, we get it," House said. "They just agreed he wasn't leaving yet, so delete the medical lecture. You need to get your hearing checked. Besides, like I keep telling you all, _I'm _a doctor, too. I _know_ what we need."

"Of course, the same thing applies to you, Dr. House. Somebody needs to stay with the two of you, just to keep an eye on things."

Cuddy answered the call immediately. "I'll take the whole week off. I'll make sure they take it easy."

House growled under his breath, not reacting to Cuddy's company but to the firm instructions. Cuddy was at least settling down again, her breathing slowing. She never would have been able to deal with being separated from either of them quite yet. Too soon after yesterday. "Don't you have other patients to see and other time to waste? You're _done_ here."

"Not quite. I'll be back in an hour or so and make sure you had breakfast. Then we'll see about discharging you." He turned for the door. "Goodbye for now, Dr. House, Mr. Thornton."

The room was left with the two men eying each other, Cuddy between them. "You had a conference with the big shots on Tuesday this week," House reminded her. "You can still duck out for an hour or so to . . ."

"Shut up, Greg."

Thomas hid his smile. She could say shut up more lovingly than anyone he'd ever met. Even with sore points and still a bit of a headache, he was looking forward to this week. Yesterday was paying some unexpected dividends. Of course, the biggest of those was the time itself with Greg there in the dark. Things had shifted subtly. He knew better than to push at it, but he hoped.

Wilson and Patterson bustled through the door carrying four trays absolutely packed, dishes clattering merrily against each other. Thomas was impressed. "There are only five of us, you know," he reminded.

House shrugged and flinched slightly. "One thing you'll have to learn about Wilson. He feeds people; automatic impulse with him. Just resign yourself to it. It's easier to give in than try to argue with him."

Wilson was supervising distribution as fussily as any butler serving a formal dinner. House and Thomas both had a stack of pancakes with bacon on the side; Wilson hadn't thought to ask Thornton what he wanted but just settled for ordering for House times two. That apparently was acceptable, as they both looked interested in the food.

Once the men were eating, once Cuddy was convinced and reconvinced that they were eating and didn't need anything else, the other three sat down, and gradually, everyone tucked in. Not bad pancakes overall for a hospital, Wilson thought, but they lacked the macademia nuts, as well as just the personal touch. He gave a satisfied sigh just the same, glad to be doing something as normal as feeding his friend again.

Which reminded him of something he'd been wondering, though on a back burner, since yesterday. He looked over at Patterson. He had to carpe diem here; he might never be in conversation with Cuddy's shrink again once they were discharged, and he would hate to be left out of a later revelation to Cuddy alone. She had offered this herself; it couldn't be too touchy for her by this point. "Dr. Patterson," he said. She looked up inquiringly. She really did have startling eyes. "I'm sorry to be reminding you of this, but yesterday during the wait, you asked us to have you tell. . . "

Patterson smiled wistfully, but she wasn't at all put off by the question. "What my husband's last words to me were." She paused and looked around the assembly, waiting to make sure she had everybody's attention. "Be sure to go to the bank," she stated.

Cuddy suddenly felt an absurd impulse to laugh, just because she could, just because yesterday was over. Her voice was sympathetic, though. "I'll bet you think of him every time you do."

Patterson nodded. "Every single trip. It's a good memory of him. His _next_ last thing he said to me was I love you, but yes, the last one was be sure to go to the bank." And then she laughed herself, and Cuddy, thus given permission, let go and joined her.


	29. Chapter 29

A/N: Here's another chapter. Sorry for the delay, but this last weekend even beat the one prior to that. On the good news for Pranks fans, while I was driving all over the place, I had an idea for another story in the series. This one might even jump in line and come next, just because it's a one-shot, a conversation, and could fit anywhere timeline wise, and the next story as planned is a full-length, complicated one including family and team and case difficulties and has some time left before ready. The one-shot will probably be fully cooked quicker. Title on the intense case one might be "Stayin' Alive," but that's not 100% settled. Title on the one shot is definitely "The Facts of Life."

Hope you enjoy this update. I make no guarantees at all on time line for posting the next chapter, but I'll get it soon as I can. Next are conversations with Kate, the track folks, and the doctor about discharge.

(H/C)

Cuddy's cell phone rang when they were most of the way through breakfast, and she pulled it out quickly, her first thought of the girls. They had already talked to Sandra and to the girls this morning; Abby and Rachel had had a restless but not a panicked night. They were impatient, looking forward to their parents' return. Jensen had also called quite early for an update, making Cuddy wonder exactly when or if the man ever slept. He couldn't have arrived home before the wee small hours of this morning.

The current caller wasn't the girls but Kate. Cuddy fumbled for a brief moment wondering who Katherine Parker was on caller ID, then put it together. They had exchanged numbers yesterday at one point during the wait. She answered. "Hello, Kate. How's Josh? That's wonderful; I'm so glad for you. Yes, they are. Very battered, but they're going to be okay. Hopefully they'll be discharged later this morning. Of course you can. We're in Room 534. See you then." She hung up, then announced to the others, "Josh is awake and talking this morning, and they think he'll be fine. Kate wants to see us before we leave. She'll be up after she finishes breakfast."

"I'm glad he'll be okay," Thomas said. "So the only person who wound up getting killed was the SOB himself."

House watched him, trying to run a differential on the tone and expression. No personal pride there, not basking even privately in the knowledge that it was only because of his own actions that the fatality score stood at one. He just seemed to be happy for the people and relieved that things had turned out well, independent of his role.

At that moment, Cuddy's cell phone rang again. She pulled it out and stared suspiciously at caller ID. The name meant nothing to her. She was expecting all hell to break loose today when the media got hold of House's name, and she was determined to protect him and Thomas from being pestered to death. They weren't nearly in good enough shape for statements yet. She had been careful to specify no information released to the front desk. On the other hand, how would the media get her private cell phone number? Not even during the Patrick episode had that happened. They had camped at PPTH but got no closer to her home or herself than that. She answered, and her "hello" this time was a clear challenge, not a greeting.

"Dr. Cuddy-House, this is Steven Taylor. I'm the manager at Parx Racetrack and Casino."

Cuddy stiffened up. She _had_ demanded contact from the incompetent management of that place during one of her rants yesterday against the security staff. In the rush of relief over the men, she had forgotten about it, but the grudge woke up again now, not much diminished for its sound night's sleep. Her tone shifted into administrative ice. "Yes, Mr. Taylor. I would like to discuss the lapses of your security staff yesterday and how they dismissed a legitimate warning, but. . ." She looked at her husband. He had come to attention, albeit with his left arm bracing his ribs, and looked quite interested in this whole conversation, filling in the blanks. "We can talk about that some time later in the week," she continued.

"I have already spoken to security, and they will hear much more about it, believe me. I am very sorry for what happened. But more important at the moment, how are Dr. House and Mr. Thornton doing?"

She tried to hold all the stiff anger in her voice, but relief softened it a little in spite of herself. "They're going to be okay. No thanks to your employees."

"I'd like to speak with them in person if I could, just to thank them. Are they up to visitors today?"

Cuddy fired up instantly. "No. They are _not_ up to visitors yet. Maybe tomorrow."

House raised his voice, easily carrying across the short gap to her - and to the phone. "Yes, we _are_ up to visitors. Come on now while we're here; we'll be discharged later." Cuddy glared at him. He gave her an innocent smile. "And I DEMAND another model horse from your gift shop. The one I bought broke."

"And shirts," Thomas called out, joining the fun. "We had to use the shirts we bought as bandages. We're in Room 534."

Cuddy firmly hit end, cutting off the call. She pushed her tray aside and came to her feet. "Damn it, Greg. And you, too, Thomas." They both looked back at her, mischief clothed in cuts and bruises, and she didn't know whether to shake them or hug them. "I can deal with the track officials myself. You don't need to be worrying about this."

House shook his head. "I broke Rachel's horse. That was a _gift_, a present for my daughter. Can't go home without a new one when they're right here waiting to apologize."

"Maybe we could even get jackets," Thomas suggested. "I think a little more than what we lost is fair, don't you, Greg?"

Cuddy sighed - nobody 75 years old and as tall as he was had a right to look so much like a little kid. But her husband's next words distracted her even from her exasperation.

House turned to face his father. "They ought to give you the whole gift shop after what you did to the bomber, and you know it. That whole section would have come down without you."

"What?" Wilson looked from one bed to the other. "What _he_ did to the bomber? You mean besides warning security and then Josh?"

House nodded. "He's the hero. You can have the media this time, old man. I had my fill of them back with Patrick."

Thomas shook his head. "I don't want the press for it. That wasn't my reason. Just let it die down, Greg."

"Hate to break it to you, but the media doesn't quite operate that way."

Cuddy was in between the two beds now. "What happened in there?" she asked Thomas.

He wasn't looking mischievous any longer. While his life had contained plenty of action, it had always been undercover and without public accolades, and the thought of the media wiped the grin straight off his face. In those last seconds before the explosion when he had seized the only desperate chance any of them had, he had merely been a father trying to protect his son. He _had_ protected his son. That much he was proud of, but Greg alive in the next bed was all the reward he really wanted for his actions. The track owed him an apology for dismissing his warning earlier (and shirts, and maybe jackets), but what had happened in the bathroom had nothing to do with them.

"What happened?" Cuddy repeated.

Thomas was silent. House spoke up after a moment. "Oh, he's definitely the hero. You should have seen that; better than a movie. The bomber was walking into the room toward us; he wanted a point-blank explosion with the clerk. Only _he_ grabbed my cane and hurled it at him. Knocked him backwards into the entrance passageway, and then . . ." House abruptly skidded to a stop in his tale. And then the old man had jumped on him, taking him down. He looked across at his father, still bewildered at the memory of that moment. No hesitation, no time for thought. The old man had only been trying to save him, instinctively, even if it cost his own life. "And then the bomb went off," House finished. "Only in the entry, not in the room. If it hadn't had those solid walls that close around it, the damage to the building would have been a lot worse." He didn't add that they would have all definitely been killed. Cuddy was already pale just thinking about it.

Wilson was staring at Thomas, open mouthed. Patterson was silent, but there was a world of frank admiration in her eyes. Cuddy stepped over to the railing next to Thomas. "You . . ." She was trembling slightly. She picked up his hand and kissed it gently across one of the bandages.

"It's okay, Lisa," he told her. Their eyes met silently. She knew why he had done it, that the burning force of that moment had been for his son, even if she didn't know the rest of it.

"The media is going to _love_ this." Wilson finally found his voice.

"That's not . . ." Thomas started to protest, and Cuddy's cell phone rang again. She reached across with her other hand for it so she wouldn't have to let go of Thomas.

It was Kutner. "Hello, Dr. Kutner," she answered.

Kutner sounded almost manic, too excited and worried to speak straight. "Cuddy, is House okay? Is . . ."

"He's fine. Well, he's hurt, but he will be fine. I take it the names got released to the press."

"It's all over the news. Turn the TV on. You sure he's going to be all right?"

"He has three broken ribs and a lot of cuts, and he was held overnight for observation. We'll probably be discharged in a little while. But he will _not_ be working this next week. That's a minimum, could be longer. Neither will I. He needs to rest."

"I'm all right, Kutner," House called. "Just don't barbecue some poor patient before I get back, okay?"

"Did they do a head CT?" Kutner demanded.

"Yes," Cuddy assured him. "He had a thorough workup. Nobody missed anything this time. We need to get going now, but he'll be back in a few weeks as good as new." She hoped. "Meanwhile, don't make any statements to . . ."

"We've done this drill before, remember?" Kutner sounded offended. "I'm not talking to anybody. At least, I'm not telling them anything that matters. I'll tell the team, though. And let House know I said get well soon, okay?"

"I will. We'll update everybody again with a timetable once we're back in Princeton and see how he's healing. Goodbye, Dr. Kutner."

"Bye, Cuddy." He hung up.

Cuddy looked at her hand, still entwined with Thomas'. "We have a problem," she announced.

House hit the remote control, and the TV screen came to life. Dr. Gregory House Again was the title across the bottom of the screen. The reporter was enthusiastic. ". . . from what we understand spotted the bomber and knew instinctively he was dangerous just as he knew Patrick Chandler was. He and another man who agreed with him tried to warn track security. However, when the security office was going through channels first to check out Dr. House before taking action, he then tried to warn the clerk that the bomber was targeting. Thus he got caught in the explosion along with another man and the clerk. All three of them were injured, in addition to the injuries of bystanders outside and above the room where the bomb went off. Although we have no specific reports on Dr. House's status, we are told that the bomber was the only fatality, and an anonymous source has revealed that all others are expected to recover." House hit off, unable to stand hearing it anymore. The whole world in his face again, just like with Patrick, and damn it, this time, it wasn't even something he had done.

Thomas sighed. "I'll talk to the press," he said, reluctantly yielding. House turned quickly, surprised. The old man obviously wanted this about as much as a root canal. "It will take at least some of the heat off you," Thomas continued.

There it was again, putting self interest aside, not just with the bomber but now with the press. Reluctant admiration and gratitude wrestled with the old, scarred-over wounds. "Thanks," House said softly, barely audibly - but Thomas heard. In the next moment, House straightened up a little, his voice stronger. "Being a hero isn't too bad once you get used to it. Once in a while, people recognize you and buy your order at a restaurant or something."

Wilson rolled his eyes. "Of course you would translate everything into terms of free food."

Cuddy gave Thomas' hand a squeeze, then stepped back, between the two beds, and almost came to military attention, a sentinel on duty. "You are _not_ going to talk to them today. You've got a concussion, and you need to rest, not be giving press conferences." She looked at Patterson. "They'll have all the hospitals in the city staked out, even if we are on the no-info list. Maybe we could set up a diversion as we leave. Get the hospital to announce a statement in one direction as we sneak out the other."

"Good idea. I'm sure they'll help us. Or we could use a back door, maybe. But speaking of leaving," Patterson said, "I have a suggestion in dealing with the cars and the trip." She had been looking for a chance to bring this up anyway. Of course, she and Wilson could go retrieve House's car from the track while Cuddy waited here with the men, but Patterson didn't think Cuddy was ready to be separated from either of them even for the drive to Princeton, especially after the latest revelations. Furthermore, she didn't think Cuddy needed to be driving any car home. Her attention would be more on House and Thornton than the road. No, she needed to be simply a passenger along with them. On the other hand, packing both patients into any one car available, whether Wilson's, Patterson's, or House's (which even though she had never seen, she had heard Cuddy's opinion of a few times in sessions), would be painful for the men.

Patterson had a better idea, but before she could get to it, House spoke up first. "We can leave my car at the track for a few days," he offered. "Not like she'd let me drive anywhere this next week. We'll work out something later to get it and just all ride home with Wilson. Except the shrink, of course, not that she'd take up much space, but her car wouldn't fit in the trunk of the Volvo."

Cuddy gave a sigh of relief. She hadn't been looking forward to splitting for the trip. But still, one of the men would have to go in back. "But how will we . . ." She looked from one to the other of the beds and worried at her lower lip.

"I have a better idea," Patterson stated. "What about a limousine? I can provide one."

Thomas couldn't hide his grin at the mental image of the tiny woman behind the wheel of a limo. "You drive a limousine?"

Patterson smiled back at him, acknowledging how incongruous that would look. "No. But I have a friend in Philadelphia who owns a limo company. I'm sure he isn't booked up on a Sunday morning. I'll call him, but we should be able to get one for the run to Princeton without any problem, and Dr. Cuddy and our two patients can ride in that. Much more comfortable for everyone."

Cuddy relaxed. "Yes. That's perfect. Limo waiting at one entrance, press diverted to the other, and everything works out."

"One more detail is missing," Thomas said. They all turned to him. "Clothes."

House suddenly looked mournful. "I did love that shirt I had on yesterday. May it rest in pieces." The ER had cut everything off him and presumably off Thomas as well. Besides, those clothes would have needed laundering about twenty times before Cuddy would have even let them in the house.

Wilson turned toward the door, answering the unspoken call to duty. "I'm on it. At least you're both the same size pretty much."

"I'm not sure where my wallet is," Thomas apologized, "but once they get all my things together when we're discharged. . ."

Wilson shrugged. "Never mind. I'm used to this. Back in a little bit." He left.

Thomas leaned back into the pillow. A mistake, as Cuddy alerted like a bird dog coming to point. "Are you feeling okay?"

"Fine," he insisted. In fact, he was getting tired, even if the shakiness of yesterday had left once he had had a few units of blood. He wasn't about to admit it, though. A nap could come later after they were discharged and out of this place.

She came up quickly to take his pulse, then studied him, then her husband again. House also wasn't feeling half as well as he was trying to act. The little lines around his eyes gave him away. "We are _not_ dealing with the media today," she reiterated. "And that's final. You two are going to rest this week and get well."

Thomas was the picture of innocence. "Of course, Lisa. Whatever you say."

"We'll be the picture of cooperation." House took the baton up instantly on the silent pass.

"Yeah, right." Those two looked entirely too much alike at this moment. She eyed them suspiciously, then turned away. "Dr. Patterson, I know you need to call the limo company, but can you be jail keeper for a few minutes first while I go to the bathroom?"

"Of course." Patterson walked up between the beds, assuming the duty station.

The moment the bathroom door closed behind Cuddy, House dropped his voice to a whisper. "Patterson. Quick! Give me your cell phone."

Patterson shook her head. "You don't need to . . ."

"This is something she'd actually approve of except that she thinks even a short phone conversation would be too strenuous right now. Come on!" Time was wasting.

She studied his eyes, trying to get a read on him. After a few seconds, she offered her cell phone but also closed the gap, stationing herself right by his face. "Confidentiality is _not_ guaranteed here."

"But neither is lack of confidentiality?" House clarified. She couldn't help smiling slightly, though the firm core remained unshaken beneath it. House took the cell phone, consulted the Google of his memory, then dialed.


	30. Chapter 30

A/N: Short update. Work was out this morning, so I spent some time logged into the system just waiting for more and wrote a little in the gap. Fortunately, nothing else particularly seems to be going on this morning. (Shhhh. Shouldn't say that too loudly. :) )

Didn't mean to break the chapter here, but that's as much time as I had. More when I get a chance.

(H/C)

House's call was indeed brief and was finished before Cuddy's return, but she had no sooner taken up position right between the beds again when Thomas asked her, "May I use your cell phone, Lisa?"

She tensed up. "You need to be resting, not calling people." He really was looking a little droopy, already tired out simply by breakfast and the conversations so far this morning.

"This is out on the news now and apparently with names included, even if they're focusing on Greg for the moment," he explained. "I do have a few friends back in St. Louis. I'd rather not have them find out from the news and then try to reach me and not be able to because my phone was smashed."

Cuddy softened a little. That was reasonable, but she was still worried that he was pushing himself too much already this morning. Both of them were. She took out her cell phone slowly. "Do you know their numbers?" she asked. Having her cell phone die was a nightmare she'd had occasionally. Even with backup lists available of most things, her life was on there. Replacing it all would be a migraine-level headache, and every time she'd had to change over phones, she had been left with the nagging worry for days afterward that something had been forgotten and was forever lost in the flush of the electronic toilet.

"Most of the important ones. Probably not 100% of them, but I do have backup files. All the addresses and numbers. Especially all the pictures." He gave a sad smile. "That's one lesson from my father's musical career and us only winding up with three recordings from years of music. It would take a nuclear doomsday to kill all the copies in different locations of what's important to me. There's one set of backups on my laptop at your house, but I'm afraid to wait until we get there. Somebody might see the story before then."

"Don't wear yourself out," she warned, extending the phone to him. "Only a minute or two."

"I'll call the stable," he said. "I could dial that number in my sleep, and anybody worried about me who couldn't find me would think to check with them." He started to dial.

"Dr. Cuddy, could I talk to you for a minute?" Patterson asked.

Cuddy hesitated, then stepped away, and they retreated to the door of the room again. "He deserves some privacy," Patterson said softly.

"Privacy?" Cuddy looked at her husband, who was, of course, eavesdropping on that phone call for all he was worth. He would probably be able to quote Thomas' side verbatim later.

Patterson grinned, following the thought, but she stuck to her point. "He also deserves some trust."

"It's not that I don't trust him, just . . . he's pushing too much today already, and we haven't even left yet. He's got a concussion and a lot else besides. That's not just me worrying; it's medical fact."

"I know. But that's not what's bothering you the most."

Cuddy shifted her weight slightly. No, the nagging voice in the back of her mind wasn't reciting a medical list of injuries. It was saying how frighteningly close she had come to losing both of them.

"We'll talk about this when _we _have more privacy," Patterson continued, "but don't smother them. Yes, they're going to need care and even some policing this week. They are going to try to do too much. But don't over control things. Find the balance."

"The balance," Cuddy repeated, in a tone suggesting that locating that point under the current circumstances was impossible.

"I know." Patterson gave her arm a quick squeeze. "Believe me, I _do_ know. But one other thing." She glanced over at the two men herself. "They are going to need some time alone at intervals, too. They have a lot to process together after yesterday, things they can't work on as well if you're always hovering a foot away."

Cuddy studied them. Thomas was on his second phone call now; he _had _continued past the one he told her, of course. She had seen him redial. House was as close as he could get to the edge of his own hospital bed without falling out of it, desperately trying to hear the other end, soaking up this data, this glimpse at his father's life. "Things have changed with them," she said tentatively, hopefully, and she quickly looked to the psychiatrist, seeking professional confirmation of the fact. Patterson had never before seen them together, had never even _met_ Thomas until yesterday, but of course, she knew the background from sessions.

Patterson nodded. "They'll keep changing, but you can help by giving them space to grow from it. Let them be _with_ each other. Even if they don't seem to be talking about important things - and they probably won't, not immediately - there will be a lot of communication going on under the surface. Don't interfere unintentionally with that."

"Lisa!" Both of the women turned. Kate was coming down the hall toward the room, her eyes and whole face lit up. "I was hoping you hadn't left yet. I had to wait until Marty got back to stay with Josh." Her smile for Cuddy was full of warmth, but she also brushed straight on past her into the room with barely a break in stride. She made a beeline for Thomas' bed, and he had just hit end on the cell phone when she reached his side. She leaned over the rails and gave him a hug that set him cringing. He couldn't possibly have hidden that reaction, and she immediately released him. "Oh, sorry, I wasn't . . . thank you. Thank you so much. Are you all right?"

"It's okay," Thomas assured her, but his breathing was still faster than it had been, his features tighter.

"I'm sorry," she repeated guiltily.

"You must be the betting clerk's wife," he said. "There can't be that many random women in the world so eager to give me a hug." He had been totally focused on Cuddy last night right after their rescue and hadn't seen Kate in those brief minutes before they had hurried her husband to the helicopter.

She laughed. "Yes. I'm Kate Parker."

"How's your husband doing?"

"He's going to be all right. He woke up a few times in the night for a minute or two after he'd had surgery, but he was still hazy. This morning, he's a lot more there, and we could really talk. He told me what happened right before the bomb went off."

"Yes, he grabbed the cane and threw it straight at him," House confirmed, subtly probing. He wondered just how _much_ of what happened right before the bomb Josh had passed along. House probably would wind up telling Cuddy about Thomas diving on top of him eventually, but he was still working on digesting that large mouthful himself. He wanted some time to process it, without assistance in that from CBS or NBC. Maybe Josh had been so impressed at Thomas' first action that the second slipped under the radar. To a stranger, the incredible speed and accuracy of that throw might have been the more remarkable of the two.

Kate looked over at House, smiling. "Josh couldn't believe it. He said for that an old guy . . . sorry," she apologized again quickly.

Thomas chuckled. "Hey, if the shoe fits."

"He didn't think _he_ could have moved that fast himself. And even if he could, he thought he probably would have missed the target or just clipped him. But he said you _nailed_ him, knocked him straight backwards."

"Fortunately, I've always been fairly coordinated - at least once I grew up." There had been a lot of awkward phases along the way, one other reason that it hadn't been totally unbelievable to him that young Greg hurt himself now and then.

"Anyway, thank you." She realized she was monopolizing the one bed and quickly circled it to the other. "And thank _you,_ Dr. House." House cringed in anticipation even before she got there. With his broken ribs added to the general bangs, a hug of the horsepower she had just given Thomas would probably make them have to peel him off the ceiling. Cuddy had an identical thought and quickly closed the distance herself, but Kate could read his body language well enough. She settled for stroking him lightly, gingerly, using one finger on an unbruised section of his arm. "Don't worry, I'm not going to squeeze you. But thank you. They said you helped Josh after the explosion, too."

"Not much I _could_ do for him besides prop him up to try to relieve intracranial pressure. They got the depressed piece elevated all right?"

"Yes. And the surgeon said what you did helped. Thank you." She looked back over at Thomas. "Thank you both. And for trying to warn Josh in the first place." She brushed her hand over her abdomen. "Josh and I decided this morning that if it's a boy, we want to name our son Thomas Gregory."

Thomas smiled, but he was still tense in the bed. Cuddy took an anxious step toward him, then paused and looked at Patterson. Where the hell _was_ the balance here? He shook his head minutely, not wanting her to ask in front of Kate and make the other woman just feel worse. Fortunately, Kate's cell phone rang just then. "Marty? Is anything wrong? Oh, okay. I'll be there in a few minutes." She hung up. "The doctor is in examining Josh, and he wants to talk to us about timetable."

"Don't expect _him_ to be getting discharged today," House warned her.

"Oh, I'm not. He's still in the ICU. But it doesn't matter how long it takes. He's going to be _okay._" She stroked House's arm again, then walked back over, cautiously touching Thomas with just the tip of her finger. "Thank you. Both of you. I've got Lisa's number. Is it okay if I call and check on you now and then?"

"Of course," Thomas said. "We're glad everything worked out in the end." House satisfied himself with a grunt, but it wasn't a disapproving one. Kate gave Cuddy a hug, satisfying her squeezability quotient there, then headed for the door, still walking so lightly that Patterson thought she must feel about 6 inches above the ground. The sense of freedom was intoxicating, not just relief that her husband would be okay but also true, ultimate release from her ex. He could never again do anything to hurt her or her husband or her child. The psychiatrist watched her leave, wishing her well in her new and Dale-free world.

The second Kate cleared the door, Cuddy hurried up to Thomas. "Are you okay?" she worried.

"She didn't mean to," he replied.

"That's not what I asked you, damn it." She took his pulse again, which was on the fast side. House was eying him clinically from the next bed, doing his own long-distance exam.

Thomas watched her, the tight features, the true concern. He had a family again, no questions left about it, even if it would take a little longer to move up to Princeton. He didn't just have clearance to take off now, as he'd thought of it back in January, but they were actually on the runway, the acceleration already past the point of no return as their plane hurtled toward its flight. They would never return to the same airport they had been waiting in. He let the knowledge sink into him, swirling around warmly, soothing the loneliness. "I wouldn't mind another pain pill," he admitted. Cuddy hit the nurse call button.

The nurse had just left the room after delivering it when two men arrived in the doorway. They were wearing professional clothes and had the air of executives, but they were also laden like pack mules, each hauling several bags labeled from the track gift shop. House gave a satisfied smile as he saw them. Rachel was going to get her model horse.


	31. Chapter 31

A/N: We will find out in the next chapter whom House called and why (and no, it wasn't the track people). And don't worry about Abby, she wasn't forgotten, although she will wind up having what's coming to her adjusted as Rachel does. About House's pain/leg/body image issues, which a few people have commented on along the way and which surface again in this chapter, we are heading there but slowly. That's going to really come up in the second long story out from now (not counting the flexible one shot that I'm not sure where it goes). I warn you, though, I'm a realist on his pain based on their own initial data from Three Stories and the early season episodes. While treatment could definitely be improved, there are no magic bullets, no "just needed physical therapy," no everything can be almost like before with just a few adjustments and he can lead a perfectly or practically normal life. His leg will continue to be an issue in this series, an increasing one as he ages.

Hope you enjoy this longer update.

(H/C)

"Dr. House, Mr. Thornton." The two men entered the room. Cuddy straightened up in challenge but then caught herself and didn't say anything up front, though she did look at her watch. They didn't need to stay too long.

The taller of the two took the lead, approaching the beds. "I'm Steven Taylor, the manager at the racetrack. I hope you two are feeling better this morning."

"Kind of hard not to," House stated. "Yesterday trapped in the dark for hours while your ceiling fell down on us in pieces set the bar pretty low. Of course, all that came _after_ we had warned you that the bomber was dangerous and that we even thought he was armed, and your security moron still decided to waste his time checking us out first."

"I have talked to the security department already, and we will have more meetings on that this next week. Our employee should have taken steps on the current threat at the same time as he asked for checks on you. That was a mistake." Switching to appeasement, he gestured with one bag-filled hand. "I wasn't sure which model horse you bought at the gift shop, so I brought several of them. A few other things, too. I remember from the news last year that you have daughters. Also, I brought an assortment of shirts to replace whatever you lost. The size we were guessing from your licenses that security copied yesterday, but if they don't fit, we can make an exchange."

House - and Thomas, too - were eying the bags with interest, but Cuddy couldn't resist throwing in a far more expensive point of compensation. "Of course, we will expect you to cover all medical expenses after insurance. I'm sure our insurance companies will be in touch with you themselves, too." Insurance companies were always looking for somebody else to potentially pass their claims to.

"Of course," Taylor agreed quickly. "Just send us the bills. No problem." The track lawyers were already cringing in anticipation of potential lawsuits. Several people had been injured minorly in addition to the three who had been trapped, and among that number of injured, odds were very high of one or two opportunists. The track couldn't deny that they had delayed acting on the warning. Thornton and House had by far the best claims; if the track could escape from them with only medical bills and some gift shop merchandise, Taylor would be thrilled.

"There's your betting clerk, too," Thomas reminded him. "He's going to miss a lot of work."

"We'll hold his job for him," Taylor assured him. "And pay him full salary while he's recuperating, of course. We will be talking to him, but his wife said earlier this morning that he wouldn't be up to visitors for a few days."

House nodded. "He did have brain surgery last night. It will take him a while to start getting stronger." He well remembered how totally weak he had been in those first days after his own operation following the car crash and Abby's birth. Even aside from the speech difficulties, it had taken weeks for him to feel anything remotely approaching 100%.

"We do apologize for everything," Taylor said. He looked around for a surface, considering the beds and then deleting that idea. He didn't want to hurt them; both men looked bruised and battered. At least they were alive; apologizing to people injured at his track was far preferable to apologizing to their next-of-kin. He hooked the roll-over table toward him with his foot and then started opening bags. If they wanted model horses and shirts, they would get model horses and shirts. He pulled out a model horse from the first bag. "This is our most popular model, Smarty Jones, who raced at our track. This is even one of the ones signed by Stewart Elliot, the jockey who won the Kentucky Derby on him." House considered it. It was the same model he had picked up for Rachel, although he hadn't popped the significant extra dollars for a signed one. He had picked that one because of the vaguely reddish color of the horse, although Thomas had pointed out that Smarty Jones was technically chestnut and not a blood bay like Ember.

"And here's a Breyer Zenyatta model." That one was darker, nearly black, with a distinctive blaze. It was posed in full gallop. "Then there's the Thoroughbred family. Your girls would love that." The family was a triple set, two adult horses, one slightly larger than the other, and a spindly-legged foal.

Patterson suddenly laughed, and they all looked at her curiously. "Dr. House, do you realize how many Breyer model horses there are available? Get Rachel started on those, and you'll have a collection you have to feed for years and years to come. It never ends."

House shrugged and winced a little doing it. "I know the one I got isn't a stuffed toy like her Ember." And he refused to merely copy his father's idea. "But it looked _realistic_. I thought she might appreciate looking at them while she's too young to have an actual horse herself." The visible future on her bedroom shelf, something to _dream_ with, not only to play with.

"She will," Thomas agreed. "I got my first model horse when I was about her age, not that it was one as nice as these. I got Silver, complete with Lone Ranger action figure, saddle, bridle, and a stand that could make the horse rear. But Breyer prides themselves on making their horses look realistic instead of just like toys."

Taylor smiled. "Every horse-crazy girls loves Breyer models. Take all of them if you want. I'm sure she'd like them, and the signed Smarty model will be quite valuable in years to come. There are a limited number of those."

"What about Abby?" Cuddy asked. "You can't take Rachel bags full of gifts and nothing for Abby."

House looked thoughtful. "When it was just _one_ model horse, I was going to give Abby a few extra piano lessons. She would have been perfectly satisfied with that as equal value. But you're right; this is pushing it."

"We brought a couple of other things," Taylor added quickly. He rustled in another bag. "I wasn't sure of the age on your daughters, but I did bring several of our general toys. Here's a stuffed unicorn. We have a child's horse puzzle." That was a scene of a field of horses, mares and foals, but the pieces were large and thick, made of foam rubber for easier grasping by young hands. It didn't have more than 20 pieces.

House considered it. "Abby would like the puzzle. Fitting patterns together. Rachel might, too, but it would push her patience. The unicorn could work." Abby did like stuffed animals in general, and she didn't have a unicorn.

"You can play off that to distinguish it for Rachel," Patterson suggested. "The model horses are realistic, like you said. Point out how much they look like real horses and how little the unicorn with a rainbow horn does. And Rachel already has a stuffed horse she loves."

"And here's a toy bugle; you just said your girl likes piano. This can be played a little bit, although it sounds like a toy, of course. A real bugle is hardly intended for indoors. But it also has a recording built in." Taylor pushed a button, and the call to the post filled the room. House groaned, Thomas laughed, and Cuddy sighed. Abby would enjoy that and spend hours trying to duplicate the tune, playing the recording and then her own notes, but the noise quotient in their home would rise accordingly.

"Then there's our very popular electronic horse game. Like I said, I wasn't sure of the ages." He pulled out a rectangular box.

"What kind of game?" House came to attention, having missed that somehow in the shop yesterday between the crowd and watching and analyzing his father picking out shirts. Cuddy mentally filled in the appropriate age herself. About eight, she thought.

"Horse racing, of course. It can be played by one to six people. You place bets on your choices and see who can win more during the day's card." House and Thomas looked at each other, and Cuddy extended her previous estimate to include the next bed. She doubted that particular peace offering would ever make it on to Rachel and Abby.

"And of course, shirts. We brought two of everything in what we think is your size." The second track representative, silent so far but watching like a hawk, absorbing everything, had been exchanging bags and providing more merchandise as needed. Taylor started pulling out assorted T-shirts, sweat shirts, and yes, even jackets.

Thomas and House watched the rotating clothing selections. "That all looks very good," Thomas said after the last bag was emptied, "but I want two more things."

The two men steeled themselves, waiting. "I want two lifetime passes to your track," Thomas stated.

"No problem. We can send them to you. We'll add free concessions."

"Second." Thomas paused to gather his thoughts on this. He was feeling quite tired, very battered, and the headache was a little stronger now than earlier. He wanted a nap, but he wanted discharge even more. Still, he knew he was pushing it already today - and he knew that Lisa probably was right. He wasn't in shape for a press conference yet. But the media was all over his son's part in the story, and delay would only give that more room to expand with half-facts. "You need to give a press conference today."

For the first time, the second executive-appearing man joined the conversation, and Cuddy guessed quickly that he was a lawyer. "We will this afternoon; we're preparing statements. We did manage to keep the names off the news for yesterday while all of the families were notified, but there's no way to keep the back story under wraps permanently. Too many people know. Someone already released the fact that you had warned the track before the explosion, and that was not an officially authorized statement." The potential sources there could have been either in track security or somewhere in the Philadelphia PD, who had been forwarded Thornton's and House's licenses yesterday to check out.

At that moment, the doctor appeared in the door and hesitated, unsure about intruding. Cuddy beckoned him on in, thinking he might help speed the parting guests, and he came a few steps inside, then waited, still at a token distance. House looked at him, then stiffened up. The man was holding not only lab printouts and a few syringes in one hand but also a quad cane in the other. House had said earlier that he would need a hospital cane for discharge as his was destroyed in the explosion. That led to a medical debate - the doctor actually recommended a wheelchair for him the first few days, and House had firmly vetoed it. Using a wheelchair on a bet was one thing. There it had been his choice, and he could stand up at any point and walk off just as usual. He hadn't _needed_ it, so using it hadn't been a true admission of that level of disability. But the current circumstances were different. He was going to re-enter that house on his own two - _three_ - feet, just as he had left it, not wheeling in like a 90-year-old. The girls didn't need to see him that helpless.

Crutches had been proposed next, a little better as he would still be on his own feet, but they both agreed after considering it that those would put increased muscular strain along his left side, which would be intolerable at the moment with his ribs. He stuck to his guns stubbornly, demanding a cane. But he hadn't meant a quad cane! Here it was in front of everybody, too, one with a large platform, not even as streamlined as some quads he had seen. It looked like a flashing neon sign to him. Damn it.

Thomas felt his attention shift and followed his gaze, then turned back to the officials. The doctor waited just inside the door.

"We do appreciate you keeping the names private yesterday, but _today_, they are out there, and furthermore, the story that's being broadcast is inaccurate. It's your responsibility to correct that."

"Our statement will make it clear that it was you who gave the warning first and Dr. House who backed you up, Mr. Thornton. We will give credit where it is due."

Thomas flinched. "It's not a matter of . . ." He edited himself, carefully not to glance at the his son's hospital bed. "I don't want Dr. House pestered to death by the media; he already went through that with the Chandler trial. But I'm not really feeling up to a press conference myself today." The doctor beside the door shook his head vigorously, giving his emphatic professional opinion on that point. "So I'd like you to tell them what _really_ happened in that bathroom."

Both track representatives alerted there. They did not know those details yet. "What did happen in there?" Taylor asked.

Thomas hesitated. Claiming his own role and asking for the credit was still difficult, even in a good cause. He didn't _want_ the publicity. But what he wanted wasn't the important issue here. "I saw the betting clerk go into the restroom and followed him in to warn him," he started.

House took over, and Thomas yielded immediately, gratefully. "Since _you_ idiots weren't going to even warn the clerk yourselves until later. Anyway, we went into the bathroom and talked to the clerk. He identified the cell phone photo and called his wife. At that point, the bomber came into the room. He stopped in the doorway, just enjoying the scene for a minute, taunting the clerk. We were trying to talk him down, but the man was unbalanced. Then he started forward, and we knew he was going to detonate the bomb. At that point, Thornton grabbed my cane and threw it at him, knocking him backwards. He fell back into the passageway, and the bomb went off there. If it had gone off in the open room, it would have blown a hole clear through your ceiling instead of just badly damaging it, and that whole section probably would have fallen in for two or three levels."

Both men were shocked out of their professional fronts, as was the doctor. They stared at Thomas. "It's only because of him that the bomb didn't kill several people," House emphasized. "And then you _really_ would have had some lawsuits to look forward to."

Taylor found his voice first. "Mr. Thornton, thank you. Yes, we will definitely include those details in our official statement." He gave a quick glance at the lawyer for the legal opinion, receiving a slight nod in return. "The record will be set straight. And thank you very much, on behalf of everybody at the track yesterday."

"One more thing." Thomas couldn't help a quick glance at his son there, pleading for understanding. "Don't mention any connection between us or that we were there together. I don't want them trying to find me through him. He doesn't need more hassle with the press after Chandler. We both just happened to be at the track, that's all, and he backed up my opinion when I asked him."

It was almost painful for him to make that request, but he did see Greg relax somewhat, appreciating that public story more than the headlines of his imagination, though those probing eyes rested on Thomas' face momentarily, searching. Thomas would seize a private chance later to reinforce the point that it was only to respect his son's privacy that he asked that. The track authorities couldn't have missed the fact by now that there was a connection between them, even if they didn't know the exact biological details. Thomas would have been proud to tell the world, but the timing of making that public should be up to his son, not to the staff of the evening news at the TV stations. It wasn't even general _private_ information yet among Greg's own family and coworkers, and Thomas thought that once they did hit that step, they would need to stop and appreciate it for a little while before taking the next one. Right now, the world wasn't invited.

Taylor looked from one of them to the other. "Okay. We won't link you up at all." He was the picture of cooperation. If he had his own curiosity, the potential for a hefty lawsuit more than subdued it. Cuddy gave Thomas a smile, knowing how hard that had been for him, but she agreed that her husband did not need to be pushed on this. She wished he would hurry up and acknowledge Thomas openly, but ripping the choice away from him and putting it on the front pages wouldn't help matters. She'd volunteer to talk to Kate later unless he wanted to himself. They could present the same request and alleged reason, avoiding the press hounding House. Josh wouldn't be up to discussing things with reporters for a while, so they had a little time to coordinate with Kate.

"And tell them that I _will_ make a statement to them. I just need to heal for a few days first." Hopefully, Thomas thought, they would run off searching out details on him in the meantime and leave Greg alone. Any chasing of his own past that occurred would lead the media to St. Louis, not to his son's circles in Princeton, and none of Thomas' friends knew the true relationship here.

"We will," Taylor agreed. "We'll make sure that all gets in our statement this afternoon."

Thomas shook his head and winced slightly. "You don't need to make a statement this afternoon. You need to make it this morning, here, from the hospital. We're going to be discharged in a little while, and we're sure the press has the entrance to the hospital staked out just in case we're at this one."

"They do," the doctor put in. Everybody looked back at him - and the quad cane, House thought, which seemed about five times life-sized. He cringed. "We're withholding information on the patients, but it will be difficult to get out the door without being noticed. They'd recognize Dr. House."

"So we need you to be a diversion," Thomas continued. "You can announce a statement in - do you have an auditorium here?"

"Yes," the doctor replied.

"Lure the press all over there. Give them the whole story, and meanwhile, we'll be leaving without cameras in our faces."

Taylor looked at the track lawyer. "That can probably be arranged," the lawyer said slowly, his mind already working down a checklist. "When are you being discharged?"

"Probably about an hour," the doctor said. "Just a few final details to cover first." House glared at the quad cane, then looked away.

Cuddy turned to Taylor. "Thank you for coming, but we'd like some privacy now." She knew that the forthcoming scene with the doctor didn't need official track witnesses, and besides, the track had some details to arrange themselves. That was a wonderful idea of Thomas'.

"Of course. Whom should we see about logistics on the press conference, Doctor?" The doctor gave them the name of the administrator, and they left, leaving all the bags behind.

House exploded the minute they cleared the door. "_Hell_, no. That is not a cane. That's a . . . that's for little old ladies and 95-year-olds."

"You're going to need the extra support," the doctor insisted.

He shook his head. "I'll call Wilson and get him to bring a _normal_ cane. That's all I need."

"I have to verify that you are mobile before you can be discharged," the doctor said.

"I _am_ mobile," House roared.

Patterson turned toward the door. "I'm going to go down for some coffee and to call my friend with the limo company. I'll be back in a little while." She left discreetly, and Cuddy gave her a mental salute. She could melt away almost as well as Jensen, and House would appreciate the decrease in audience, but he still had his stubborn look on. Cuddy came up beside the bed, taking his arm gently, and he pulled it away, refusing to be settled.

The doctor closed the door of the room, then walked over to the bed. "If you can walk well enough with this that it doesn't seem to be needed, we can get a straight cane from hospital supply for you to go home with. Meanwhile, the morning labs are back." He let go of the cane and shuffled papers invitingly. "Your hemoglobin level has been stable through the night after the transfusions, Mr. Thornton, which is reassuring."

"I already told you I'm not still bleeding anywhere," Thomas said. "And I've never been anemic. It was only because of that one cut; I'm feeling a _lot_ better this morning."

The doctor eyed him in the bed, silently reading several of the physical signs against that, and then continued. "White count is somewhat up for both of you but not extremely up."

"That's just a stress reaction," House insisted. "We're not febrile, and if it were an infection, it would be heading for the ceiling, not only up a little." He reached out for the pages of lab work, and the doctor passed them to him.

"It probably _is_ just a stress reaction, but you still need to be very careful for the next several days. I brought another dose of IV antibiotics, and we'll give you those before pulling the IVs. You'll be on oral ones for the next 14 days, and I would recommend taking your temperatures twice a day. Anything over 100.5, head _immediately _to the nearest ER." He looked at Cuddy, emphasizing the point.

"Believe me, they will," she nodded vigorously.

"Okay. Other than watching for infection, the most important thing is to rest. You two have had a lot of trauma here. It's going to take time."

"We _know_ that," House grumbled.

"Both of you did eat breakfast? Feeling fine since? Any nausea?"

"No." Thomas' tone wasn't as sharp as House's, but he was looking nearly as impatient.

"And check in about a week on the stitches. I'll assume you can get somebody from your own hospital to remove those, Dr. House."

"_I _can remove those myself," House replied.

"Let's give you the antibiotics, and then, I need to make sure you can walk well enough to get from the bed to the bathroom." The catheters they had had overnight had already been pulled earlier that morning by the nurse. The doctor injected both IVs and then removed them. Cuddy, meanwhile, was clearing away all the sacks from the track, leaving nothing right up beside the beds for either man to trip on. She piled them in one of the visitor's chairs.

The doctor finished pulling Thomas' IV. "All right, Mr. Thornton, you're up first." He had debated whether it would be easier with House to see the other man go first, emphasizing that he was also hurt and stiff and sore, or just make it worse, emphasizing that even though older, he didn't have a bad leg on top of it. He'd finally decided there was no easy way to do this. But the quad cane was going to be needed, no question. Between House's leg and his ribs, the extra stability would be required.

Thomas moved the covers aside and slowly sat up. All of his battered muscles protested that movement, and he gritted his teeth but persisted. Finally up, he sat on the side of the bed for a moment, steeling himself.

The doctor looked at the hospital gown. "By the way, do you have clothes to change into?"

"Our friend is out buying them." Thomas slowly dropped down onto his feet. The doctor stayed close in safety position, ready to grab if needed.

"Do you feel dizzy?"

"No." That was the truth. His headache was a little worse standing up, but he wasn't dizzy. Standing up did make the physical chorus sort itself out more. His right side and his back had taken most of the force of the explosion and had most of the cuts, and several points stung and pulled as they shifted. His left shoulder was a deeper ache but not as acute. All of his muscles were generally stiff and sore. He took a tentative step.

House watched from his bed, suspicious and concerned in rotation. He had been afraid the old man would exaggerate his own status to try to make his son feel less crippled, but he didn't seem to be. He clearly had enough to deal with without inflating it. Stiffly, moving like he was 90 himself instead of 75, he headed for the bathroom. Cuddy watched closely, and House could practically feel the worry coming off of her in waves. Thomas and the doctor achieved the bathroom door, and the doctor indicated the little room with a nod. "I need to make sure everything is working before I can discharge you," he said. They disappeared, and the door shut.

House immediately turned to Cuddy. "That is _not_ a cane," he objected.

She sighed. "Greg, it doesn't matter. Not with me, not with the girls, not with Thomas. You went through an explosion, which would have hurt _anybody_, and of course it's going to make your leg worse. It's extra help that you need for a little while, nothing more." He didn't look convinced.

The bathroom door opened to the flush of success, and Thomas made the slow, painful return journey. Arriving at the bed, he climbed back in, grateful for his height. At least there wasn't a jump up required. Thoroughly drained, he leaned back into the mattress, closed his eyes just for a second, and then immediately reopened them as if afraid he had been caught.

"We can stay another day," Cuddy offered. They could work out something with the girls, maybe have them visit.

"No." The men spoke in absolute, rock-solid unison.

The doctor walked around to the other bed. "Your turn, Dr. House."

House gathered himself. He was no stranger to broken ribs, and he remembered from his childhood that the worst moment was in changing from lying down to sitting up, that one point along the journey where pressure and muscular tension on the chest wall cannot be avoided. Experiments as a child on whether it was better to go slowly or quickly had left him with the answer that neither made any difference; the ribs were going to stab him anyway. Currently, he had no choice in the matter. He didn't think moving quickly, given his other injuries, was an option. He sat up cautiously, and the stab in his side came just as expected, nearly taking his breath away. Achieving vertical, he waited for a minute, letting the waves of pain settle. At least he did still have extra and stronger meds on board. He was going to need them.

He carefully adjusted the hospital gown, making sure it concealed as much as possible of his leg. Then, hanging onto the lowered rails on each side, refusing to reach for that quad cane yet, he dropped down gingerly to his feet, testing. His leg didn't go into a full spasm at least, no doubt only because of the amount of antispasmodics he was on, but the pain level immediately rose.

"Greg?" Cuddy asked.

He opened his eyes. "Fine." He looked at that damned cane, sitting there waiting. Sitting upright on its own, because it was an _old people's_ cane. But he knew better than to take a step without it. Total collapse wouldn't prove anything to the doctor. Cautiously releasing the bed rail with his right hand, he reached out.

The thing _was _far more stable and supportive than his usual cane, reassuringly firm to lean against, and that fact just annoyed him further. His trek across the room was even slower than Thomas', but he did make it. Once in the bathroom, he demonstrated his ability to pee, all the while snarking that he'd possessed that ability for several decades already. Slowly, painfully, he returned to the bed, and his ribs stabbed him again as he got back in and changed his torso back from vertical to horizontal. He was sweating before it was all done.

The doctor looked at him, then at Cuddy, and they both sighed. A wheelchair would be so much easier, but he wouldn't use it. He had made that clear. At least the quad cane would help him more than a straight one would.

House opened his eyes. "So we can walk. Satisfied? When do we get out of here?" He didn't mention again getting a straight cane from hospital supply.

The doctor made a few final notes. "I wish you'd stay another day, but I can discharge you now. We'll have to coordinate with the track press conference if you want to use that for a diversion. And I agree that _both_ of you are in no shape to deal with the press yet. You'll need the clothes to arrive, too."

Wilson tapped and then opened the door just at his last statement. "Did someone mention clothes?" The oncologist was carrying several bags himself. "I've got everything down to and including tennis shoes - and I hope you wear the same shoe size he does," he added to Thomas.

"So as soon as the track people set up the conference and Patterson gets back with the limo details, we can leave," House said.

Patterson came in at that moment. "Everything's ready. A limo for this morning is no problem; one is heading over now and will wait in the parking lot until I call them to bring it up. And my friend guarantees that the driver will keep his mouth shut and not talk to anybody about this, reporter or otherwise."

"Then let's get the hell out of here," House demanded. Cuddy pulled out her cell phone and dialed the track official for an update, and Wilson started presenting his own offerings, less horsey but more comprehensive and practical. At least, House thought with relief, neither Wilson nor Patterson had commented on the quad cane.


	32. Chapter 32

A/N: Split this chapter in half from what I intended. Next half, you'll get the girls and the phone call, but I decided those deserved their own chapter. Hopefully I'll have time Monday. I'm working Monday, but holidays are notoriously slow, so I should have some gaps.

About Cuddy's parents, whom a few people have mentioned along the way and who briefly intrude here, that, too, is coming up down the road. Patience. Also, please remember that Pranks dives off the series part way through the Greater Good, before we had any info on Cuddy's parents. I understand her mother did turn up in the series later, although I'd quit watching by that point. But whatever happened beyond the Greater Good on your TV doesn't carry over to this universe

Enjoy!

(H/C)

Wilson finished displaying his purchases and sorting them into two stacks, one on each bed. He'd noticed House suspiciously eying the button-down shirt as a potential injury concession, but Thomas had the same, which Wilson was careful to display on its trek to that bed. Really, he thought, House would be thanking him as soon as he tried to dress - or at least _thinking_ that his friend was right after all, even if he'd die before admitting it. Wilson didn't think that either House with his broken ribs or Thomas with his just-relocated shoulder would be capable of the over-head shirt-donning stretch for a little while. The oncologist pulled out the last item from his sack - the receipt - and folded it carefully, then folded it again, waiting, watching the older of the two patients out of his peripheral vision.

Thomas totally ignored the pointedly displayed receipt, instead reaching forward to trace the stripe on the tennis shoes. Wilson stifled his sigh and pulled out his wallet to tuck the receipt in. He'd just wondered if, for a change . . . As he returned his wallet to his pocket and looked up, his eyes met Thomas' just for a moment. "You did say never mind," Thomas reminded him. House snorted appreciatively, and Wilson considered what life really might be like in the future with two of them around.

Cuddy ended her call. "They have the press conference scheduled at 10:00, provided that's all right with us." Everyone in the room wearing a watch looked at it simultaneously, and House reached out to capture Wilson's arm for a consult. "That should give us time to get dressed and ready."

"More than time," House protested. "We're not 95. Not even _him_."

Cuddy ignored the objection. "They're cooperating with us, at least."

"They _should_," House said. "We own them, Lisa. If you'd heard that idiot in security yesterday. . ."

Wilson was looking at Thomas, whose features had tightened up. "I don't think the man would have taken any action at all, even delayed, if Greg hadn't backed me up," Thomas said. "He was sure I was just another Vet lost in the past. Only imagining things."

Cuddy's cell phone rang again at that point, and she pulled it out and groaned. House tilted his head, studying her, then put it together and started to laugh softly, though his merriment was quickly stifled against the stab of his ribs. Cuddy debated solutions such as ignoring the call, but she knew what the result of that would be. With a sigh, she answered. "Hello, Mother. . . yes, he is. . . he was hurt, but nothing too major, thankfully. They held him for observation, but he's being released now . . .yes, really. He's going to be okay. . . I just didn't have a chance with everything that was going on yesterday." Her expression gave the lie. She had deliberately not notified her parents yesterday, taking advantage of the news name blackout. Her relationship with them was improving slowly, but it was still careful rather than relaxed, adding a layer of tension itself. In yesterday's storm of stress, she simply hadn't been able to bear the thought of adding any more. She'd planned to call later today once they got home to give an update on House, knowing she couldn't hide the whole episode, but the media had gotten there first.

"Mother, I _know_ I should have called you. No, it isn't that I don't . . . there was so much going on with Greg being trapped. . . I would have called you once we got home. Yes, I know that's what family does." Her agitation factor jumped sharply, and she looked at Thomas. "No, I don't think. . . he's not badly hurt, Mother, just going to be very sore for a while. But we won't need any help. He needs rest more than anything, rest and peace and quiet." House's amusement on listening to this had vanished, and he, too, glanced quickly at the other bed. "I know you'd be perfectly willing to, and I appreciate it. Really. But . . . here, why don't you talk to him for a minute? Just a minute, though. Don't wear him out. He is banged up." She handed him the phone with a look of mixed dread and pleading. House got along better with her mother than she did, having won her over completely when he brought his piano to his wedding, although it was a good thing that Susan hadn't heard some of his comments about her in private.

House took the phone with an eye roll but without hesitation. Cuddy stepped back over to Thomas' side, though her eyes remained on her husband. Her parents didn't know about Thomas yet, of course. But having them find out now would be a nightmare. Their first reaction to the reappearance of House's father was predictable; they would come down immediately to put him through the third degree. Every aspect of the "where were you and why didn't you do something" question would be explored, and every single statement of his would be challenged, every detail of the past that they knew pulled out as an exhibit in the evidence against him. To them, people were automatically weighed on the success scale, and Thomas, having clearly failed as a father in protecting his son, would be lacking from the start. He'd have an uphill battle to put it mildly. She'd been dreading that introduction while knowing it had to happen down the road, but it didn't need to come while House and Thomas were still working things out between themselves, which was far more important. It definitely didn't need to come this week with both of them injured.

"Hello, Susan." House's tone was so sweetly amiable that Thomas grinned and Wilson and Patterson both looked impressed. Fortunately, Susan was unable to see his expressions, which were from an entirely different book. "Yes, I'm fine. Cuts and bruises mainly. I'll be stiff and sore. . . I don't think that would be a good idea. We're worried about the girls, see. You know my mother's death rattled them. They're going to be upset that I got hurt, and I think we just need a quiet family week with only us, everything perfectly ordinary, just as usual, to reassure them. Having their grandparents there fussing over me would only emphasize the fact that . . . yes, I know you'd be helping, not fussing. Still, it might make them worry that things were worse than we're telling them. . . Right. . . Maybe in a few weeks." His eyes drifted to Thomas again. "When it's just a routine visit, not a sick call. . . yes, I promise I'll be all right. . . I will. . . yes, we will call for help if we need it. . . Great. Talk to you later. Bye." He hit end and let out a deep breath, wincing in the next second and bracing his left side.

Thomas was looking worried. "I don't want to create problems."

"You're not." Everybody in the room, including Patterson, spoke together. They all stopped at the verbal collision, sorting out traffic, and Cuddy continued first.

"Thomas, whatever else you might be able to blame yourself for, you are _not_ responsible for my relationship with my parents. And nobody should have to meet them while healing up from a concussion. That's beyond the call of duty."

Wilson nodded vigorously. "You'll understand eventually. She's a dragon behind the smile - if you think Cuddy gets too overcontrolling, you should see her." Cuddy glared at him. "Well, she does. And _he's _always sizing up everybody he meets like he's conducting interviews for a top position in a company."

"You are _not_ creating problems here," Patterson emphasized. "The problems were created long before you arrived."

"You don't want to know them yet, trust me," House agreed. No way. Absolutely, positively not. He could predict their reaction to any prodigal father as well as Cuddy could, and he'd almost rather face the media if he had a choice. Those two were so picky. He still couldn't figure out why both of them liked him, though it had taken a little while to gain full acceptance with her father.

Cuddy gave Thomas' arm a gentle squeeze in a relatively unbruised area. "Thomas, even without you there this week, I wouldn't want them around. Everything Greg just said to her was perfectly true. Having my mother there would not calm the girls down at all, only underline what happened. She adds tension to any house, even for a visit. Besides, you aren't fit to be leaving, so this discussion is closed. Forget about my parents." For now, she thought. The day would come eventually. Hopefully quite a ways off. Too much else needed to be settled before then.

The nurse re-entered at that point, carrying bags of personal items and also two sacks from the pharmacy. "Here's what we could salvage from your personal items. The clothes were hopeless, but your wallets are here, and your watch, Mr. Thornton. And here are all of your prescriptions." She set one bag on the foot of each bed, and House immediately went into a comparison of the mass and apparent weight of each. He knew what all Thomas was on at the moment, of course, antibiotics, anti-inflammatories, and painkillers, but he was glad that his bag wasn't much fatter visibly.

The nurse turned for the door. "I'll get the paperwork printed out while you get dressed." She left with brisk disapproval, her thought that they were pushing it by leaving this morning obvious even though unspoken.

Patterson stepped outside while the men got dressed. Cuddy helped House, and Wilson helped Thomas, who needed assistance himself. Shoes for both of them were impossible and had to be put on them. Cuddy kept her eyes on her husband while they were changing from the hospital gowns to the new clothes, giving Thomas some privacy, but she could tell that House kept running a comparison with his father, stiff point by stiff point, still worried that he was appearing more disabled here.

By the time the shoes were on, both men were sagging, and they sat back down on the edges of the beds. Wilson was stunned at the number of lacerations and bruises Thomas had, impressed all over again at what House's father obviously had gone through. A very fit body underneath the injuries, though. He looked far less than 75 years old. Just as Wilson finished helping Thomas into the sling for his left arm as the final step, he felt the other man fumbling for something. A moment later, with a soft touch, Thomas slipped him a bill, the action hidden from his son by his body. Wilson met his eyes, surprised that the issue was being brought up again after Thomas' earlier mocking dismissal, but then he realized that that had been another ice-breaker moment for House's benefit. He hesitated, debating. It really didn't seem right that Thomas should have to pay for the results of yesterday when he had apparently saved everybody. Thomas shoved the bill into his shirt pocket firmly.

A tap came on the door. Cuddy gave a quick look at Thomas to make sure he was dressed, then called, "Come in."

In came the nurse with two wheelchairs, followed by Patterson and a man who obviously was a hospital executive. "The press conference is starting in ten minutes," the man said. "It's already been announced to the media, and they are all in our auditorium waiting. Still, it might be better to take you out the side entrance, just in case."

Cuddy nodded in approval. Wilson eyed all the sacks in the visitor's chair. "Do you have another wheelchair?" he asked. They made handy wheelbarrows, among other things. The nurse nodded and disappeared, returning a minute later with a third one. Patterson, getting directions from the executive, was making a quick call to her limo-owning friend.

The painful transfers into the chairs were made. To Cuddy's relief, House at least tolerated this ride to the exit on the excuse that it was mandatory and applied to all patients equally, regardless of cripple status. Not that he could have walked out of the hospital on his own from the 5th floor, but he was stubborn enough to try. She was glad of the ready-made excuse of hospital rules. Down they went, Cuddy pushing House, the nurse pushing Thomas, and Wilson pushing the baggage. Patterson walked alongside Cuddy, giving her and House a few final soft suggestions on tactics with the girls. The executive trailed them like a bodyguard, eyes scanning both sides for trouble, but the trip was accomplished without a hitch.

The limo was there waiting, looking reassuringly full of extra leg room. Wilson left to fetch the Volvo, which would lead them back to the House house in Princeton. Thomas climbed in, and Cuddy kept an anxious eye on him during transit but didn't remind him to be careful. Patterson gave Cuddy a tight hug. "Call me," she whispered in her ear in the middle of it. "And remember, it's over."

Cuddy nodded. "Thank you," she said. "Thank you for waiting with me, and for last night, and for everything." Patterson smiled at her, then turned away, leaving without a backward glance as House steeled himself for the transfer. He snapped at the nurse once when she carefully checked that the brakes on the chair were locked, but he managed to enter the limo without falling over. The nurse gave a silent sigh of relief and wished Cuddy luck with these two. She was glad to have them off her floor, even if they should be staying another day.

The bags were quickly loaded, the nurse helping Cuddy with that as the executive stood by, still looking around for potential trouble. House had sat down with a gap in between himself and Thomas, and Cuddy climbed in, taking the space. The executive stepped forward to close the door. "Thank you, Dr. House, Mr. Thornton, for everything," he said. "It's been an honor to meet you. I hope you're feeling better soon." Then the door was shut.

Wilson's car pulled up, circling them, and House stabbed the intercom. "Follow that Volvo," he commanded the driver.

The convoy moved off. Cuddy sat back between the two of them and tried to remind herself of Patterson's words. It was over. All except the girls, and her parents eventually, and some other details she was sure she'd forgotten. Still, she would have to be careful this week. She didn't want to ever lose herself as far as she had after the assassination attempt on the President. She'd hurt her husband so much that week, her whole family but especially him.

Thomas had started rustling in the refrigerator. He had given a quick glance at the bar first, but while champagne seemed appropriate for the occasion, it probably didn't mix with concussions and painkillers. He found soft drinks in the fridge. "You want a drink, Greg? Lisa?"

She shook her head, and House pointed silently. Thomas removed two Cokes and handed them both to Cuddy. "Would you mind opening them, Lisa? I'm one-handed at the moment."

"I'm not," House snarled, but he didn't reach for his. Even something as minor as that tab-pull might well have annoyed his ribs. He picked up the remote and switched on the TV, intending to explore the movies available. Cuddy came to attention. The local station that came on first was airing the press conference.

"Let's watch this, Greg," she said.

"No, thanks. I've already seen this movie. At least, I saw the first one; this is a cheap remake." He didn't change the channel, though. He looked over at Thomas - the old man really was looking wiped. House realized that one reason he was interested in a Coke was that he was trying to stay awake and alert, putting off any nap until after they got home. House switched into German, but his tone wasn't as sharp as the words were. "So you don't want people to know about me." He was relieved, wanting the decision to be his, but he couldn't help pushing at the point just the same.

Cuddy tightened up between them but didn't ask for a translation. Thomas looked over at him. "Greg, that's one press announcement I'd be proud to make. I'd gladly tell the world you're my son. But you should have control of that. The media doesn't need to rip it away from you. That's the only reason I asked the track people to make that particular statement."

His eyes were direct, sincere - and exhausted and hurting. House met them for a moment, then turned to look through the windshield. Wilson was setting a grandmotherly pace up front, taking all corners carefully as he left the city, accelerating gingerly, as if he himself had broken ribs. "Wilson drives like an old woman," he groused, returning to English. "Come _on_, Wilson. Let's get home before noon."

Home, Thomas thought. He took another drink of the Coke and watched the city slowly retreat around them. He was heading home.

"What kind of snacks do they have?" House asked suddenly. He didn't want to lean over to look for himself. Thomas started to forage again, and House tapped the remote, still not changing the channel. "Just remember, Lisa, we could be watching a movie."

Cuddy sat between them, watching the press conference but even more feeling the living presence on each side of her.

It was over.

They were going to be all right.

Maybe now, finally, the true healing could begin.


	33. Chapter 33

Cuddy watched the Princeton city limits sign go by. The relief at returning home with both of them was overwhelming, given how bad it could have been - she still shuddered to recall what they had looked like last night right after rescue. But the worry was nibbling in at the edges again. They had to get through breaking the news to the girls, and every mile nearer to home brought that encounter closer. Furthermore, after her initial misstep in explaining Blythe's death and the issues that had caused, she was hoping she would handle it right this time and at least not make what happened harder for her daughters. It wasn't going to be easy anyway.

She almost wished that Patterson had come along to the house to help her through those first minutes, but the psychiatrist had advised against it. "I will if you really want me to, but I think it would go much better only with people they know well. I'm a total stranger to them, and you looking to me throughout the explanation would just emphasize that there's more going on here than you are saying. You can do this, Dr. Cuddy. You're the best person to do this."

It would fall to her to break the news; there was no way around that. When the limo arrived at their house, she would have to go in first while the men were getting out. Without a warning in advance, both girls would immediately charge up to hug them fiercely the instant they came through the door. The girls already could physically rock House sometimes in the force of their greeting on bad leg days. After the unsettled night and worry, they would be much more enthusiastic, and details like bruises, moving slowly, and the new cane might well take a few seconds to soak in against the most important fact of their return. Patterson had definitely agreed with that. The girls needed to be told first so that they would be careful, but they also needed to see the men as soon as possible after that. Wilson had firmly unvolunteered himself for that duty, instead saying he'd help the men with getting out. Cuddy knew this was rightfully her place. She just hoped she would do it right.

"Don't focus on how it happened right now," Patterson had said. When House looked dubious, she explained further. "They are very young girls, Dr. House. Even with Abby, _what_ happened is going to be shoved aside at first in just dealing with the fact that you've been hurt. The emotions will flood out the details. Let them process that, see you hurt and see you alive still. Those are the important things to them. Reassure them. They need reassurance far more than an explanation. When they do ask, which I doubt they will for a day or two, I wouldn't mention bombs, of course. Just say that part of a big building fell down and emphasize immediately that this hardly ever happens and was a very rare thing. You were just in the wrong place at the wrong time, which is true. But don't push details on them until they ask. Another thing, don't try to distract them first thing with the gifts." She was looking straight at House there. "When you go in, you won't be _able_ to distract them from your injuries. Don't even try. Leave the gifts until a little later; just let them absorb your condition first."

Cuddy was also worried about the two men. Both of them were acting like 8-year-olds at a circus, discussing the amenities of the quite-impressively-equipped limousine, verifying that it did indeed contain Grey Poupon, debating comparative taste and crunchability of various snacks, and flipping restlessly through the movies available once the press conference had ended. She had figured out long since that both of them were afraid to simply sit back for the ride and were trying to keep perpetually occupied so they wouldn't fall asleep. This morning already had run their recuperating energy reserves to empty, only they were too stubborn to show it. She wished they would take a quick nap before meeting the girls, and the drive from Philadelphia to Princeton was a golden opportunity, but her sole suggestion of that had drawn an immediate denial in stereo of sleepiness or even being tired at all. Men!

Everybody would need a long nap once they got home, no doubt including the girls after their chopped-up night. She wouldn't mind one herself once she was sure everybody else was down. Her night in the visitor's chair, waking up often just to make sure they were still breathing, hadn't been that restful, either. Probably a quick lunch first, just soup and sandwiches or something, while the girls got used to the new situation, but then, once the girls started to settle, they were all heading for bed. At least House had managed to talk her mother out of coming down to help.

Wilson turned into their street, and he pulled to the curb out front, allowing the whole driveway for the limo to get as close as possible. He had sent a quick text to Sandra five minutes ago while at a stoplight, warning her of imminent arrival. She and Marina would keep the girls away from the front windows until Cuddy had a chance to get inside. He got out, stretched stiff muscles - his night in a chair hadn't been anything to write home about - and then walked over to the limo.

Cuddy took a deep breath and squared her shoulders, and House gave her hand a quick squeeze before turning to the opening door to face Wilson. "Took you long enough to get here. Just for future reference, the accelerator is the one on the right."

Wilson was unphased. "Welcome home, House." He stepped back as Cuddy slowly climbed out. "Good luck, Cuddy. You can do this." But he was sure glad he didn't have to.

Cuddy went up to the path to the front door, then turned for a final anxious look back to check on her husband's progress in exit, which looked painful but at least hadn't been a total fail yet. Pulling out her keys, she unlocked the door and entered.

Everyone was in the kitchen; she could hear Sandra and Marina. Her daughters heard the front door, and they erupted from the room like a lake bursting through a dam. Even the less-swift Abby made a good race of it. Both girls piled into her with a force that actually rocked Cuddy on her feet slightly. She absorbed it willingly, picking both of them up simultaneously for a bear hug. Her family. They were all going to be together again, tonight and many more nights. Yesterday's disaster had moved on.

"Mama!" Both girls were speaking at once. "Where _were_ you?" "Gone all night." "Was it hell day?" "Where's Daddy?" "What about Thomas?"

Cuddy squeezed them tighter. "Daddy and Thomas will be inside in a minute. They're getting out of the car." And walking up the path, and even given House's speed at the moment, which would make Wilson's sedate driving look like the Concord, she only had a small window of time here to break the news and give the initial reassurance. She looked over at the kitchen door, where Marina and Sandra were standing, just silently and supportively there. Sandra was holding Daniel. Belle appeared at that moment, walking up to Cuddy, sniffing her over, and then staring pointedly at the door. Cuddy smiled slightly, the cat breaking the ice somewhat. _I can do this,_ she reminded herself.

"Girls, before Daddy and Thomas get in, I need to tell you something. Okay?" She moved over to the couch and sat down, one daughter on each knee, where she could face them easier. "Daddy and Thomas got hurt in an accident. They're going to be okay."

Rachel immediately turned, trying to get to the door, but Cuddy held on. Abby went for immediate questions, but as Patterson had predicted, she didn't ask what happened. "Not dead?"

"No. No, they are _not_ dead. You'll see them in just a minute. They're going to be fine. Perfectly fine. But they're very stiff and sore for now. They're going to take several days to get all well again. So you're going to have to be careful with them, okay? You know how you have to watch out for Daddy's leg so you don't hurt him?"

They nodded. "But they're okay?" Rachel asked.

"They're going to be perfectly fine, Rachel. Just like they used to be. It will just take a little while. You know how when you fall and bruise yourself, it hurts for a few days? They have a lot of bruises like that and cuts. But they will be fine. They're not dead. I promise. But don't hug them and squeeze them right now, okay? You'll have to be very careful. Even more careful that you usually are with Daddy. Can you remember that?"

At that moment, the door rattled again, and Wilson stuck his head in. "Everybody ready?" he asked. Cuddy nodded, holding the girls back as both of them tried to jump down now. Wilson opened the door wide.

House entered first, moving in extreme slow motion but with determination. He had one of the track gift shop bags in his left hand, his right firmly on the quad cane. "Hi, Rachel, Abby." His voice was bright and cheerful. "Were you good while we were gone?"

Cuddy waited until she was sure the girls had seen a few painful steps, then let them go. Her warning had soaked in, backed up by his appearance, and they approached carefully. Rachel attached herself gingerly to his good leg, and Abby stopped about a foot away and reached out to touch him lightly with one hand. House started to bend over to their level and quickly stopped with a hiss of pain as his broken ribs stabbed him.

"Daddy?" Both girls looked more worried now.

"I'm okay." He didn't try bending over again, though. "Let's get to the couch where I can sit down, and then I'll say hi to you." They backed off worriedly, and he hobbled the short distance and eased himself painfully into the cushions. "Come up here." He patted the couch on either side. "Come on, it's all right. And I even have _presents._ Guess what I brought you." He pulled out one of the model horses and the toy bugle from the sack.

Neither girl as much as glanced at them. "You okay?" Abby asked with all the concerned sympathy a 2-year-old can give.

"I'm fi-." He felt Cuddy's look. "I'm banged up some. But I'll be okay in a little while. I just need to heal up, and then I'll be perfectly all right, good as . . ." He remembered his leg and changed the sentence after a sad pause. "Good as I ever am. Come on, come up here."

Cuddy gave them a gentle boost, and they slowly, gingerly closed in on either side of him. She looked back for Thomas. He was standing in the doorway, though propping himself heavily against the frame. "Sit down, Thomas," she insisted.

He slowly walked to the recliner and sat down, and the girls looked over at him. "Thomas?" Rachel slid off the couch and trotted to the side of the recliner, staring at him.

"I'm all right," he assured her. "I'll be fine in a few days." He reached up to trace the long row of stitches. "This is just a cut, Rachel. They had to sew it back together, but it will heal up just as good as new."

She looked at it, then back to him, then turned quickly and ran back to her father, scrambling up onto the couch cushion again, though she did try to be gentle. "You're going to be okay?" she asked anxiously.

"We're going to be fine. Everything will heal up. Look, Rachel, I brought you a model horse. And Abby, this is a bugle. It's another kind of instrument."

The gifts didn't draw even a flicker of attention; the girls were too focused on him and Thomas. He gave a soft sigh of defeat, and Cuddy walked over to take the gifts and put them on the coffee table. "_Later_, Greg," she reminded him. Not that he had forgotten Patterson's advice; he just hadn't believed it. "Wilson, would you get the rest of the sacks so the limo can leave?"

"Sure." Wilson went back outside.

Cuddy walked over to Marina and Sandra. "How were they?" she asked softly. She had asked it several times on the phone, but an update in person deserved a repeat.

"Worried but dealing," Sandra said. "They've both been cranky this morning. Not nearly enough sleep last night. They need a nap."

"_Everybody_ needs a nap," Marina emphasized, looking at the dark circles under Cuddy's eyes.

"Believe me, it's on the schedule. I think we'll have to give the girls a little while with them first, though. Thank you so much for stepping in yesterday."

"That's what friends do," Sandra reminded her. She looked beyond Cuddy to Thomas, and Cuddy suddenly remembered that Sandra alone of the group (well, Sandra and Daniel) had never met him. By the time she performed the introductions, Wilson had finished unloading sacks, and the limo pulled out of the driveway.

Rachel and Abby were still on the couch on either side of House, still touching him gently, and Belle had jumped up by this time. She sniffed him over thoroughly with feline concern, then walked over to sniff Thomas' legs, then returned to the couch arm, watching House.

Rachel finally left the couch again to walk back across to Thomas' chair, and she studied his cut face again. "I've got a few more that are lower and easier to see," he said. He showed her his right arm, which was indeed a road map of bruises and cuts. "See, Rachel? It's just bruises and cuts, like you get sometimes. They'll need several days to heal, and then they'll be fine."

She reached out gingerly to trace one, trying not to push, then looked up at his face again. "They had to sew them?"

"Some of them, yes. Kind of like mending clothes. If you ever get a tear in your clothes, a lot of times, it can be sewed back together, and it's just like before. Only people heal up even better than clothes. With clothes, you have to leave the stitches in. With these, we can take the stitches out in a few days, and it will stay together on its own. In several weeks, it will just be a scar left, nothing more."

She reached up toward the sling. "That's to let my arm rest for a little while. I hurt my shoulder, so my arm needs to be still to get better. It will be okay."

Daniel was flip flopping in Sandra's arms, and Wilson picked him up. "Dada!" Daniel gave him a hug, then looked around, spotting Belle. "Kitty!"

"Well, nice being the center of attention for three seconds," Wilson grumbled.

Sandra laughed. "He was asking for you several times this weekend."

"But how often did he talk about the cat?" House couldn't help throwing that question in.

"You don't need to chase Belle right now, Daniel," Wilson said. He was afraid that vigorous crawling might bang into one of the two patients unintentionally.

"No!" Daniel smacked his chest vigorously.

"Everybody's kind of cranky this morning," Sandra apologized. "It was a rough night."

"We'll all take a n-a-p as soon as lunch is over," Cuddy said.

"Don't spell!" Rachel protested, but she was rubbing her eyes. She went back over to the couch, climbing up just to lightly touch her father again, being careful but wanting to be in contact.

No one had looked at the gifts or the other sacks yet, but Abby suddenly noticed the new cane, aided by Belle. The cat had come to wary attention when Daniel was pointing at her, ready for evasive action if needed, but when she jumped down to the floor, she quickly got distracted by the quad cane and wound up perching on the platform like a pedestal. Abby slid down for a closer inspection, and Rachel joined her. "Nice cane!" Rachel said. House flinched, and Belle looked at the girls steadily from golden eyes as if claiming the perch as her personal property.

"Let's see what we can rustle up for lunch quickly," Marina suggested. "Come on, Dr. Cuddy." Cuddy followed the other two women into the kitchen with a final worried glance backwards at the men.

Once in the kitchen, Sandra gave her a hug, and a little more of the tension drained away. "We'll stay through lunch," Sandra said, "just to make sure things are stable with the girls, but then we'll leave you alone. I think the girls are going to be fine."

"Probably sooner than the men are," Cuddy agreed. She was relieved at how they were taking it, both girls concerned but not panicking.

Marina nodded. "It _hurts_ to watch him walking. Both of them, but especially him."

"Those broken ribs are going to take a long time to heal. The doctor wanted him to use a wheelchair."

Marina gave her a knowing look. "Men. Too stubborn to admit what's good for them."

Meanwhile, in the living room, House dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Wilson!" Wilson came over with eyebrow raised. "You know what you need to do tonight?"

The oncologist sighed. "Believe it or not, House, I did have a few ideas on that." His voice was equally soft as he looked toward the kitchen. He could hear Sandra's voice at a distance.

"Well, what you _really_ need to do is to find a sitter for the sprog, and you and Sandra can drive back to Philly tonight and pick up my car."

Wilson stared at him. "Pick up your _car_? The one you agreed this morning could stay where it was for a few days? Do you have _any_ idea what this weekend has been like for me? _Hell_ no, I am _not _going to waste tonight going back to pick up your car. I can't believe you're even asking. You can be the most egotistical, self-centered, jack-" He broke off, realizing that three sets of small ears were listening as both girls and his own son watched closely. "No!" he said with finality.

"Too bad," House commented. "I guess the reservation will have to go to waste then."

From annoyance to confusion in one short step. Wilson had found that it was a frequent step for those around House. "What reservation? What are you talking about?"

"Never mind. Doesn't make any difference, since you and Sandra aren't going to go back to Philly for my car tonight."

"House!"

House relented, the flicker of fun - and perhaps of something else behind it - in his eyes. "If you and Sandra _had_ gone back to the city tonight, and if you happened to have stopped by Rigoletto's around 8:00 p.m., you would have had a reservation for two at one of their best tables. Candlelight, soft music, good Italian food. Might even make up for Valentine's Day."

Wilson well remembered Valentine's Day. He had had reservations at Rigoletto's for himself and Sandra, planning a romantic evening with all the stops pulled out, but Daniel had come down with a stomach bug that day. They had spent the holiday night trying to soothe their demanding and fussy son and cleaning up puke. Not quite the evening he had had in mind, and when Daniel finally settled down and went to sleep in the wee hours of the morning, they had been too worn out themselves to even make love. "But I didn't . . . how could you have gotten . . . they're booked up for a few weeks on reservations, especially on the weekends. I had to make the Valentine's Day reservations a few months out. How did you get something for tonight?"

House shrugged. "Helps if you diagnosed a family member of the owner's once. I can call and get reservations there on short notice any time I feel like it. But hey, it was just a thought. If the two of you would rather stay home with your kid instead, the kid who's going to sleep most of this afternoon and then be awake half of tonight demanding your attention, instead of going to a romantic restaurant for a private dinner together, that's your choice."

Slowly the smile started across Wilson's face as the idea soaked in. Candlelight. Soft music. Good Italian food. Now, _that_ was setting the mood. "We might be able to fit that in," he said. "Thanks, House."

"Don't forget the car." House stiffly fished his car keys out of his pocket and tossed them over. "I just want my car back. You have to eat somewhere tonight, after all."

"Right. Thanks, House."

The women emerged from the kitchen a few minutes later with trays of soup and sandwiches. Abby and Rachel were still sticking to House like glue, although they had both drifted over another time or two for a look at Thomas, but they slowly seemed to be absorbing the idea. They were being very careful not to hurt them. The gifts still lay unnoticed, and House had given up, forwarding that to tonight. Damn Patterson for being right. That was an annoying shrink habit that she obviously shared with Jensen.

Once lunch was finished and the dishes were rinsed and put in the dishwasher (Marina knew that Cuddy would have done it herself alone later before lying down if they hadn't helped), Marina and then Sandra and Wilson made their farewells and left. Finally, the five of them were alone.

Both girls were yawning by this point. "We need to take a nap," Cuddy started.

"No!" Rachel's protest was predictable. "Don't need a nap. Let's watch a movie."

Tempting, as the girls and probably the boys would fall asleep during it, but Cuddy thought everybody would sleep better in the beds. The men were too sore for extended couch and chair napping. She looked from her husband to Thomas with concern. Thomas was literally sagging in the recliner now. He looked absolutely running on fumes, the concussion on top of the injuries catching up with him. "Thomas, you need to lie down, but if you leave the door open, I'll hear you if you need anything. Just call."

He straightened up or at least tried to. "No!" he repeated. "I don't need a nap. Let's watch a movie."

Cuddy gave an exasperated sigh. Rachel, her attention caught by the echo, was looking over at Thomas herself now. "Yes, you do. You need the rest to heal," Cuddy emphasized.

"I do _not_ need a nap," he insisted. Cuddy was about to launch into an annoyed assessment of his condition when he had the audacity to wink at her. His eyes shifted sideways to Rachel, and belatedly, Cuddy realized what he was doing.

Rachel had hopped down off the couch, going over for a closer inspection. Even to a 3 1/2-year-old, his exhaustion was obvious. "Take a nap, Thomas," she ordered, sounding adorably like her mother. She even had the posture down pat.

"No," he insisted. "I am _not_ going to take a nap. I don't need a nap."

"Yes, you _do._" Rachel grabbed his hand, and Cuddy saw him stifle the flinch. "Come _on_, Thomas. Go to bed."

Slowly, he stood. He didn't have much choice on the slowly, but he managed to give the impression in body language that he was only reluctantly agreeing to pacify her. "You might make me get in there, but you can't make me stay. I do _not_ need a nap, and I'm not going to take one."

Rachel was firing up in the face of his defiance. "Yes, you do! Take a nap and get better." She tugged him toward the hall. "I'll _make_ you take a nap. I'll make you stay."

"Slave driver," he grumbled, slowly starting forward.

Rachel left him momentarily as they reached the hall, and she galloped back to her father, studying him. "Mama, Abby, take care of Daddy. I need to make Thomas take a nap."

Cuddy smiled. House was watching his father with amused eyes. "We will, Rachel. You make good and sure he takes one, okay? He needs one."

"Yes." Rachel nodded with solemnity, taking on her self-assigned duty. "I'll make him." She ran back to her captive. "Take a nap!" she demanded.

House and Cuddy looked at each other over Abby after the other two had disappeared down the hall. "Not bad," he admitted.

"Not bad," Cuddy agreed. She stood up. "You can help me, Abby. We need to make sure Daddy takes a nap."

"I don't _need_ a nap," House protested, playing along.

Abby reached over to him. "Yes, you do!"

The trek back to the bedroom was slow and painful. Cuddy glanced into the guest room as they passed, seeing Thomas already lying down while Rachel sat up in bed beside him with a stern look, visually pinning him to the mattress. Once they were in their own bedroom, House lay down with the usual stabbing protest from his ribs. Abby was concerned all over again. "You okay?"

"I will be." She studied him with those disturbingly perceptive eyes. "I hurt my side," he admitted. He unbuttoned a few buttons and let her see the bandage around his chest. "See, it's all wrapped up, and it's going to take it several days to get well. But it _will_ get well. I'll heal up, and it will be fine." Abby reached out to touch the bandage lightly, then nodded, satisfied.

"Take a nap, Daddy."

"Slave drivers," House said, echoing Thomas.

Cuddy spent some time getting them situated in the big bed, slipping a pillow under House's right knee to ease his leg a little, getting another pillow to place protectively between Abby and his crushed left side. By the time she was satisfied, both House and Abby were asleep already. Belle jumped up onto the bed and started another thorough survey of House, but Cuddy noticed that the cat did not stand on him as usual. She stayed on the mattress to the side. "Be careful with him," Cuddy admonished, and Belle gave her a golden glare as if disparaging mere humans who questioned feline perception. Cuddy chuckled, then tiptoed down the hall to look into the guest room again.

Thomas was already sound asleep, and Rachel, of course, was also, in bed along his left side. One hand rested gently on Thomas' sling. Cuddy stood there for a long moment, watching House's father, noting the pain lines in his features even in sleep. Poor Thomas didn't really have a comfortable position to lie, some sort of major injury on each of his sides between the dislocated shoulder and his head injury. Then there was the condition of his back. The doctor had commented how many cuts Thomas had on his back, by far the greatest number of them.

She had seen for herself that House had none. His back was by far the most unmarked surface of his body. Compared to the rest of him, it was nearly unscathed.

She knew what must have happened in that bathroom in the final desperate second between Thomas throwing the cane and the bomb going off.

Cuddy stood for a few more minutes watching him, then slowly turned away, leaving the door open. Back in her own bedroom, House and Abby were sound asleep, and Belle was stationed on guard like a golden-eyed sphinx near his right side. Cuddy changed into a warm-up suit, getting rid of the clothes she had been wearing since yesterday. She thought of a quick shower, but she couldn't stand being out of call that long yet. She climbed into bed herself, next to her husband with their daughter between them, and she reached over gently to feel the rise and fall of his chest with his steady breathing. Pulling her arm back, she stroked her daughter's hair fondly, then settled into her pillow. She had intended to lie there for a while just soaking up the homecoming, but far sooner than she meant to allow herself, she, too, fell asleep.


	34. Chapter 34

A/N: Short update. Next chapter will be more at the House house plus, finally, Wilson. To the best of my knowledge, unless the chapters divide differently on screen than they are mentally, there are three chapters remaining in this story beyond this one. Hope you enjoy, and thanks for the reviews.

(H/C)

Melissa softly opened the bedroom door and entered, closing it soundlessly behind her. She stood just inside the room, and the smile that started after a moment warmed her whole face. Her husband, asleep, looked _guilty_. Not the specific troubled shade of guilty about a past misdeed but simply guilty to be taking a nap, as if this might be presented later as evidence against him in some cosmic trial. Always, on the very rare occasions that he took a nap, the expression was the same. He wasn't exactly hyperactive, definitely not physically, but he always felt that he should be doing something productive. Even leisure time was full of things such as playing the guitar or rounds of chess with Mark. Simply switching off and totally relaxing was a concept that he was still, with difficulty, working on.

He had arrived home Sunday morning at 2:30, waking her up by his entrance. She had been subconsciously listening for him while asleep, even though he had tried to slip in quietly and not disturb her. They had talked for a little while after that. She would have gladly put it off until he'd had some rest after all the tension of Saturday, but she knew he would sleep better for a brief heart-to-heart conversation first. Then they had fallen asleep spooned together - until 6:30, when Cathy, who hadn't gone to bed until after the final "he'll be all right" update late Saturday night on House, woke up and discovered that her father's car had returned. She then came crashing in for a more extended report in person. They all had breakfast together, but about 8:30, under urging, Jensen went back to the bedroom for a supplemental nap.

It was now 12:30, and Melissa couldn't resist sticking her nose in just to make sure he was still alive. He really must be worn out emotionally as well as physically after the demands of yesterday. She stood watching him, and when memory knocked on the door, she yielded willingly to it, looking back through the past as a photo album, seeing the stages leading to one another, many with imperfections and awkward stages along the way but overall the slow development that even now continued.

They had been sweethearts in school, and for both of them, there had never been anybody else in life. Not even a question. Melissa had tried dating a few men during their separation, but all of them were flat and boring even if they ticked off all boxes on her mental list of the man she and Cathy needed. No fire, no chemistry. The right match simply couldn't be distilled to a list of qualities on paper. But hooking up while so young and inexperienced had had its drawbacks, too. Both of them really had needed much more maturity when they first married. Problems had drawn them apart rather than together.

It had taken her a long time and painful analysis to get past the hurt and realize that he actually had never rated work as more important than his family. No, _his_ problem had been trying to do everything, family included, believing he could spread himself around enough to handle it all, like a superhero with no personal limits and with far more than 24 hours in a day. Not that that wasn't a problem, and a successful marriage would have been impossible until he realized the deep error of that framework and took steps to change it. But it hadn't been the problem _she_ thought they had had. That was her own epiphany, delayed well after his. The sin she had blamed him for so bitterly had never in fact been the one he committed. She had needed to understand that as much as he had needed to change what he was doing.

Those had been painful lessons along the way, but slowly, even with occasional stumbles like yesterday or like her own "flashback" on Cathy's birthday last fall when he had called her on leaving the office and she thought immediately he was going to miss the family celebration, they were learning together how to make it work. Even the stumbles now could bring them closer afterward. Those early disagreements years ago had usually ended in stony silence, misunderstanding, and retreat. No longer.

Jensen shifted suddenly, and his eyes opened. She had always loved his eyes, the incongruity of their darkness against his light hair. They were perfectly focused as he looked around; he woke up at once, like the ignition turning on a well-tuned car. Never a morning person herself, she envied him that. "What time is it?" he asked her sheepishly.

"12:40. Cathy and I had sandwiches already a little while ago, so you weren't delaying us. Feeling better?"

"Yes." He stretched and sat up. "Sorry."

"For what, Michael? Being worn out after yesterday? Anybody would have been. By the way, Cathy is making fudge now. She wants you to mail a care package to Princeton on your way to work in the morning."

He grinned. "At least that's better than wanting to deliver it in person. He needs to rest and heal this week. I already cancelled his session Friday."

"She did mention delivering it in person. She was annoyed when I wouldn't let her skip school tomorrow. I told her fudge delivery wouldn't be an excused absence, and she said it should under the circumstances."

"What about the masked terror?" Even with the door closed, the house was suspiciously quiet.

"Mozart is in the kitchen with her, playing with a toy mouse. She was trying to keep him quiet for you this morning."

Jensen studied her, the analysis turning up a level. "What's up?"

She sighed and walked over to the bed, sitting up against the headboard next to him, and their bodies slid together like magnets. "The news released the names this morning."

He tensed up immediately. "Damn it. House _is_ going to be all right, but he isn't physically up to dealing with the media right now. And they put him through so much back at the trial."

"They grabbed onto his name immediately and were drawing all sorts of parallels, just like spotting Chandler and so forth, but then about mid morning, there was a press conference."

"He was at a _press conference_? Today?" How on earth had Cuddy failed there?

"No, it was the manager of the track and some corporate lawyer. But they said they had talked to Dr. House. They gave the inside story of what happened before the bomb went off. It turns out the real hero from yesterday is one of the two men who was with him. They'd talked to him, too. Thomas Thornton." She watched her husband closely, and his eyes shifted. She remembered his phone call frantically trying to find House yesterday right after the explosion, asking a friend if House _and_ Thornton had gone to the races as planned. "Thornton grabbed Dr. House's cane right before the explosion and hurled it at the bomber. He knocked him backwards into the entryway, and that helped contain the explosion. He probably saved a lot of people's lives. Definitely saved theirs."

"Wow." Her husband was impressed, but she could tell he wasn't surprised. He could easily believe it.

"The man is 75 years old, apparently. He must still be amazingly active to have reaction time like that. They also said that it was Thornton who spotted the bomber at first, and Dr. House backed him up in a second opinion when he asked him. And they said that he had a head injury and would be unavailable to the press for a while so he could heal, but he'd talk to them eventually. What I thought was really interesting, though, is that they _didn't_ say the two of them went to the races together. They said Dr. House happened to be at the races, too, and Thornton recognized him after all the hoopla last year and asked his opinion." She looked at him. "But I know after yesterday that that part isn't the truth."

He sighed. "No, it isn't."

"So I was thinking, especially given the ages, who Dr. House might be having a private day with, one that you thought was such a big deal that you wanted to keep tuned in long distance, but that he wouldn't want people in general to know. That's his real father, isn't it?"

He nodded slowly, confirming it. "Nobody knows the relationship yet. Well, only a very few people. House hasn't made it public yet, not even in his own circles. They have . . . a lot of things to work out together first."

"I can imagine."

"I'm glad they asked the track to put out that statement. Takes some of the media pressure off Dr. House but preserves privacy, too, even if they had to lie a little. They definitely do _not_ need the media in the middle of that angle of the story right now."

"Do you think the part about what Thornton did with the bomber is a lie, too?"

"No. I hadn't asked them what happened yesterday, but I can believe that." He remembered House's description of Thornton terrifying the defense attorney last summer.

"So have you met him? Before last night at the hospital, I mean."

"Yes. He was in Lexington in January."

"What's he like? And where on earth has he been all this time?"

She was concerned for House herself, he realized, wanting to verify what his long-lost father was like. "He's a good man. Very intuitive - they're a lot alike, but Thornton is less sharp around the edges. Not that his life has been easy at all, but he at least had a stable beginning in a happy family before it went haywire. That makes a lot of difference. As for where he's been, he followed his son's life from a distance up until the last three years when he was consumed with his wife's final illness and death. But he didn't know about the abuse. He only visited about every other year or so during House's childhood."

She relaxed a little. "You think he'd be good for him?"

"Very much so. But it's going slowly. They _don't_ need to be pushed on this." At least House didn't. Jensen knew how readily Thornton would jump into full acknowledgement.

"Does Dr. House blame him?" He tightened up, and she immediately backed off. "I'm sorry, Michael. That's pushing it too close to what you two have discussed in sessions. I'm just curious. And worried."

"I know." He smiled at her. "Thornton is a good thing. But at this point, definitely a private subject."

"I'm glad for him. Everybody needs a father. A _true_ father, biological or not."

"Yes," he agreed, remembering his own. He also had had a stable beginning. He hated to think what his driven personality might have led to without that. Far more problems even than they had had. He gave her a hug, then pulled away. "Speaking of which, I'd better go spend at least part of this weekend with our daughter. I wasn't doing much of that this morning."

"You needed the rest." She got out of bed. "I'm sure Cathy would be glad to see you, though. She's also got to be hitting the limit on keeping Mozart quiet." Indeed, just as they opened the bedroom door, the kitten's yowl was heard from the kitchen. Both of them flinched.

"Home sweet home," Jensen said. "But we're not getting her another one. Even if she wants one. Enough is enough." She laughed, and they headed down the hall together.

(H/C)

Kutner had spent most of the day glued to media sources, the TV and his laptop both running and his eyes in a visual ping-pong game back and forth between them. Even after being reassured about House, he still wanted to know the details. At least as many as you could glean out of the press. He knew better than to believe media reports until verified first hand, but it sounded like House would be unavailable for several days recuperating, and Cuddy would hit the limit quickly on calls from him. No, for the time being, he was limited to the press.

He watched the statement at 10:00, in fact rewatched it on news sites several times, trying to dissect truth from media. Of course, the various news sources immediately set off trying to chase down details on Thomas Thornton. About mid afternoon, one story posted a photo of him, obviously a driver's license shot.

Kutner took one look at the picture and came straight up off the couch cushions, his mind kicking into overdrive. Once again, he remembered that Saturday last summer when he had returned from lunch and exited the elevator to find a man just turning away from House's office door. Tall, smooth-talking, amiable, but in retrospect not giving Kutner a bit of information on himself. Kutner had wondered about him occasionally for days afterward, just because he didn't seem like the run-of-the-mill curious visitor to the 4th floor. They'd encountered many of those during the trial, and that man was the one who had stood out, but as many times as he replayed that brief conversation, Kutner could not pin down what exactly had caught his attention.

Thomas Thornton. Visiting PPTH last summer, asking about House. Tall, as tall as House was. Not really looking alike, nothing that had jumped out at him, but on point-by-point dissection now, there _were_ subtle similarities in physical type and facial structure.

House's father. His _true_ father.

And if he had been at the races with House yesterday (forget what the public story was; the coincidence was too great otherwise), that was several steps up from simply sightseeing at his workplace and asking a coworker what Dr. House was like.

House's father was back in his life, and House was slowly building a relationship with him. They were up to spending a day out together. In Housian terms and in under a year, that was impressive speed, appropriate for the 75-year-old who had taken down a bomber yesterday.

Kutner wondered what the team would make of this news, but he had no intention of telling them. No, this was too big, too important to mess up. In this one case, he would be willing to let the inaccurate press report about yesterday slide. House would tell them when he was ready.

Still, the whole rest of the evening, as he continued news surfing, Kutner couldn't wipe the smile off his face.


	35. Chapter 35

A/N: Brief update just to get you something without too long a gap. Life is busy at the moment. This counts as part 1A of the three remaining chapters. More soon, and thanks for the reviews.

(H/C)

Cuddy woke up feeling guilty, wondering what was left undone. She had been so deeply asleep that it took a few moments to orient herself, and the late afternoon sunshine outside the window only added to the mental scramble. Soon enough, the memories of yesterday came flooding in. She turned quickly for a check on her husband. He was still asleep, as was Abby between them, and in rest, his unguarded face looked both pained and exhausted. A quick check of her watch revealed that they'd been asleep for 4 1/2 hours, and she stared at the timepiece suspiciously, questioning the answer even with the backup evidence of the clock on the nightstand. She could well believe that _he_ had slept 4 1/2 hours in the middle of the day. He and Thomas were not only injured but absolutely worn out by their ordeal. But it was unheard of for herself to take that kind of nap.

She surreptitiously crept out of bed and placed her pillow to block Abby on the other side so there was no chance that her daughter would fall out if she rolled before fully waking up (not that Abby ever had, but an ounce of prevention never hurt). She then, after a quick stop in the bathroom, headed down the hall to check on Rachel and Thomas. Both were still asleep, though Rachel was starting to make the small, indistinct murmurs that meant that she wasn't far from waking up. Cuddy stood in the door watching them, a smile playing about her lips. Grandfather and granddaughter, asleep together.

The smile froze on her lips and shattered. Thomas was sweating, his silver hair limp and sticking to the edges of his face. She didn't remember stepping forward, but her legs must have acted, because she was beside the bed in the next instant. Urgently, she put a hand on his forehead. He wasn't running a fever, she realized with relief. No, he was simply hurting, the pain surfacing through sleep even before his consciousness did, and some quick math revealed the probable cause. He had taken a pain pill with lunch, but that had been five hours ago. It was wearing off.

His eyes opened suddenly, startled, disoriented at first as she had been herself a few minutes ago. "Thomas," she said. Her hand was still resting across his forehead. He looked at her and relaxed a little, remembering. "You need another pain pill. Hang on, and I'll get the pharmacy bags. I think I put them up in the cabinet in the kitchen temporarily with everything going on when we got home."

"I'm all right, Lisa," he assured her, but his expression gave it the lie.

"Sure you are. I know where your son gets most of his stubbornness from now. I'll be back." She headed for the kitchen, retrieving both bags from the cabinet. House was going to need a medicinal reboost soon, too. She filled two glasses with water and then returned to the guest room.

Rachel had just woken up and was sitting up in bed. Thomas had made it partially upright himself, leaning gingerly against the headboard, needing the support but his battered back protesting the pressure at the same time. Rachel reached over to touch Thomas' face. "You're hot!" she commented.

"He's _hurting_," Cuddy corrected, coming in. "He needs to take some more medicine." She set the glass of water down and fished out pill bottles, stopping to read the directions on each to make sure she got it right. The anti-inflammatories ought to be taken with meals, and his next antibiotic pill came then, too, but she got out two Percocet. His lips tightened as she added the second one. She offered the pills and, a moment later, the water, then carefully recapped the child-proof bottle. He took them reluctantly, on the edge of protesting, but his body yielded to necessity.

He drank down the full glass of water, thirsty, and then looked over to Rachel as he handed the glass back. She was concerned but reassured, too. She saw her father take pills all the time; to her, the meds were simply something to help Thomas feel better, not a statement of how badly he had been hurt. She supervised the process, then nodded at the end. "You feel better now. You _did _take a nap! I made you."

Thomas smiled at her. "You sure did. You got me, Rachel." She giggled.

Cuddy was inspecting the cut along his temple closely. The edges seemed nicely together, and it didn't look inflamed. She would survey the ones on his back later to make sure none of those were starting an infection, but the poor man needed a chance for the Percocet to kick in first. Rachel leaned across to study the cut herself. "You got a _big_ cut," she said, sounding impressed.

"I sure did," he agreed, grateful that _she_ hadn't seen him yesterday before he was cleaned up.

"But it gets better?"

"Of course it will," he replied. "Have you ever had a cut?" She nodded. "Did any of them not heal up?"

She surveyed her arm, the site of her latest booboo a month or so ago, and pointed the smooth skin out to him. "It's all gone away!"

"Right. This one will, too. Only it will take it a few days longer, since it was a big cut. But cuts heal up."

She smiled at him. Cuddy was smiling, too. "You are so good with kids," she said softly.

His eyes met hers. "Several years of secondhand exposure, mostly at the barn, and several decades of dreaming. Plus Tim, of course. He was a joy. Not an easy child at times, and he was strong willed, but so worth it. We were true _friends_ by the time he was grown, plus father-son, too." His eyes shifted toward the wall, toward the bedroom and his other son, and his face was full of wistful regret and tentative hope.

"Who's Tim?" Rachel asked.

He considered, then saw no reason not to answer. "He was my son."

"Can he come visit, too?"

"He's dead, Rachel," he said sadly.

She absorbed that. "Like Grandma."

"Yes. Like your Grandma."

She gave him a hug, trying to be gentle on it. "But _we're_ not dead. You stay here."

"He'll be staying here a little while, at least," Cuddy said firmly. "Thomas isn't going home tonight since he's hurt. He's going to stay here for a few more days so he can get better."

"Yay!" Rachel gave him a stronger hug, then remembered his injuries as he flinched. "Sorry, Thomas." She added a gentle supplemental hug, being careful. "We hafta hug for sorry. Only Mama and Daddy always kiss instead."

Thomas laughed. "Sounds like a good apology rule to me." He looked at Cuddy with an eyebrow slightly raised. He knew the back story behind sorry from the trial.

"Reconditioning," Cuddy said softly. "Jensen's idea."

"Is it helping?" he asked.

"Yes." She picked up the second glass of water and pharmacy bag. "I need to go check on Greg, and he'll be due for more meds, too."

As she started for the door, she heard her daughter behind her saying firmly, "You need to be here if you're hurt, 'cause I'll _make_ you get better."

Cuddy didn't need to see his face to hear the smile. "All right, Rachel. I surrender. I'm sure I'll get better fast with such expert supervision."

"What's sup-vision?"

"That means you know how to tell people what to do."

Rachel considered this. "You need to order pizza. I'll tell you that."

"Maybe we can have a pizza tonight. Never hurts to ask, anyway."

Granddaughter and grandfather. Hopefully soon, Rachel would know it. Smiling, Cuddy turned down the hall to go wake up her husband.


	36. Chapter 36

A/N: Sorry for the delay, but my musical schedule has kicked back into full gear after having two of the groups on summer break, and a hectic week plus a hectic weekend just left no time to spare for writing. Hope this chapter makes up for it with House family interactions. This is part B of the chapter, and part C up next time will have a little more House family and, for the Wilson fans, Wilson finally getting his moment. After we complete C of the current probably 3-part chapter, two chapters will remain in the story. Following those, there will probably be the one-shot that I said is flexible in setting and could sneak in anywhere. The next full-length story is complex and still has a lot of baking time, so there will most likely be a gap.

Thanks for all the reviews, and I hope you enjoy the final parts of this story as much as the rest of it. And thanks to some of the folks on my dorm floor freshman year in college, who taught me long ago how a pizza fulfills all food groups.

(H/C)

House was awake by the time Cuddy entered their bedroom, his tense features making her wonder whether he was simply battling the pain or running a full differential dissecting whatever partial snippets of conversation he had overheard between her and Thomas and Rachel from the next room. Abby was waking up right then, so a moment of true discussion about Thomas, softly giving her husband the rest of the incomplete scene, was impossible. Cuddy knew he would want to know details; whether he liked the facts or not, he always needed to _know_ them.

She settled for physical care instead, offering him the pills and the glass of water. He rolled his eyes at the water but didn't protest, and she tried to help support him gently with one hand behind his head as he fought the balancing act between raising up enough to swallow without hitting the angle of elevation at which his ribs gave their worst stab. Together they succeeded, but the physical reality was bad enough at the moment even so. Abby was sitting up and staring with wide eyes by the end.

"You okay?" she asked.

House let his head fall back into the pillow, trying to stay still and give the pills a little time to work. "I will be," he told her, but the sweat standing out on his forehead didn't add much reassurance.

Abby touched his face tentatively, just with the tip of a finger, then switched to her mother for a second opinion. "Is Daddy okay?" she asked.

Cuddy had to smile. Mostly there was legitimate concern, and that was stronger, but there also was a layer of analysis buried at the bottom of it. More and more as she grew, Abby obviously was starting to dissect things, to diagnose the layers of her world. Even without the fact that she had her father's eyes and hair, she was undeniably his daughter. "He _will_ be, Abby," she said. "That's the truth. It's going to take a while, and he's going to have to heal. Like when you've been sick, and you don't just all at once completely feel better. But with a little bit of time, he's going to be fine. He's just hurt right now, but it won't stay like this."

Abby considered this reply, looking from her mother back to her father, then nodded, relaxing. She reached across him to Belle, who had stood up and was in the middle of an impossibly long feline stretch. "You be nice, Belle," she said. "Be soft with Daddy." Belle gave her a jaw-splitting yawn, then turned her back to the girl and sat back down, grooming a spot on her shoulder needlessly.

House chuckled, then winced. "These two girls of ours are going to be trying to administrate the whole house in a few years."

Cuddy laughed with him but couldn't help shifting into future strategizing. "I just hope they do all right when they start school. We need to check out preschools this summer." They had been talking about enrolling Rachel in the fall in a preschool to expose her to a little more socialization and structure before kindergarten. She would be four at the end of this year.

Abby stretched herself, doing an admirable imitation of Belle, then slipped off Cuddy's side of the bed. "I need to go potty," she said, heading for the door.

Cuddy fielded her, figuring that Thomas might well be heading for the big bathroom once he managed to get moving. "Here, Abby. Let's use ours. I'll help you."

Abby changed course to the other room but also tossed her head a little. "Don't _need_ help," she insisted. House watched them with a smile that was unwitnessed and thus let itself show fully as the two went into the bathroom and closed the door. Leaning back, he wished that the painkillers would hurry up, and he also wished that he knew what had happened in the next room. He had heard Rachel's voice a few times at sharper moments, and he had heard Cuddy's amusement and the fond note in her voice. The exact words hadn't been clear, only an intermittent one successfully rounding the corners into the next room, but the tone had carried its own message.

Family. He treasured his girls beyond anything, even beyond work, which was once all he'd thought he would ever have. But if he brought the old man into the family, how would it change things? This was all so new to him, something to be savored. He didn't want it to change. Would sharing his daughters mean less for him?

Footsteps were heard, slow, pained footsteps, and then the main bathroom door shut, and in the next moment, Rachel stuck her dark curls around the corner of the open bedroom door, seeing if he was awake. "Daddy!" She trotted over with vigor, and Belle stood up again and glared at her, instantly on guard, delivering the same look she gave when Rachel was too abrupt in trying to pet her. Rachel responded automatically to the cue, slowing down and walking as near as she could come to flat-footed to her father's side of the bed. "I made Thomas take a nap!" she announced proudly.

He couldn't help smiling at her obvious sense of accomplishment. "Did he take a good one?"

"Uh huh." She studied him. "Did Abby and Mama make you?"

"Yes, they did. I had a fine nap."

She gave a satisfied toss of her head and immediately changed the subject. "Good. Now we need _pizza_. Pizza fixes hell day, and you'll be better."

He grinned. "You'll have to talk to your mother about that, but I'll vote for pizza."

"Thomas, too. We win! Me, you, Thomas. Pizza!"

"Unfortunately, Mama's vote counts for more than one on some subjects, and it pays to give in now and then to keep her happy."

She looked around. "Mama?"

"She took Abby to our bathroom."

Rachel nodded. "I need to go potty, too." She turned toward the bathroom door herself, and House dropped his voice to a whisper.

"Rachel." She turned back promptly, and he beckoned her closer. "Do you like Thomas?"

She nodded vigorously. "Yes."

"Because he has a horse?"

She was starting to look confused, wondering about the intensity in his soft question. "Yes. But he's nice."

The bathroom door opened, and Cuddy and Abby exited. Rachel galloped over, and Cuddy turned back around, closing the door again behind them. Abby walked around the bed to her father. "Do the pills help?" she asked.

He reached out carefully with his right hand to brush her hair. "Yes, the pills help. I _will_ be okay, Abby. It's going to take several days, that's all."

"Sorry you had hell day," she told him, matching the word to a soft kiss of his hand, gentle as a butterfly. In spite of Cuddy's best efforts at editing, the phrase, picked up from her initially, had caught on like wildfire with the girls, and they used it now to refer to any day where things went wrong.

"So am I," he said, but part of his mind couldn't help going back to yesterday. The darkness, the groans of the building, the voice and presence beside him. Oddly, it wouldn't have occurred to him to call it hell day, though it definitely should qualify if any day ever did. In an effort to distract both of them, he changed the subject. "Abby, I brought you presents. You and Rachel both."

She was starting to be reassured enough that her curiosity awoke this time. "Where?" She looked around the bedroom.

"In the living room."

She started that direction, then hesitated and looked back at him. "Come on, Daddy," she said, but she didn't wait, starting off again as soon as she'd given the invitation. A pang went through him as he realized how conditioned she was to the fact that her father didn't like people watching him while he got out of bed.

Thomas exited the main bathroom just as Abby was walking down the hall, and House heard this closer conversation clearly as they avoided colliding. "Hello, Abby."

"Hi." A few pained steps - he hoped the old man's pills were kicking in, too - a silent analysis so obvious that he could almost see his daughter's slight head tilt, and then Abby's inevitable question. "You okay?"

"I'll be fine. It's just cuts and bruises; they'll heal up. Rachel was talking about ordering a pizza earlier. Do you think your mother would let us have a pizza tonight, Abby?"

Her response had House smiling again, because he knew immediately what she meant. "Dunno. Maybe two."

"Two pizzas? I hope so. That would be even better than one."

"No, not . . . _diff'rent_ pizza. Mama and Daddy get two."

Thomas chuckled. "She doesn't like the same kind of pizza he does? Is that it?"

"Yes."

"Which one do you like better, Abby? Your Daddy's or your Mama's?"

She took a moment to consider the question. "Both. Sometimes."

"So it depends on what mood you're in?"

There was silence, a somewhat suspicious silence that time. Then Abby called out to her father instead of answering Thomas. "Come _on_, Daddy." She trotted on down the hall, and House heard the old man's soft laughter. He pushed himself up quickly to a sitting position, intending to join them without delay, and the stab of his ribs took his breath away. The bathroom door reopened, of course, just as he was sitting slumped on the side of the bed panting slightly and cursing broken ribs.

"Greg? Are you okay?" Cuddy hurried over with Rachel a concerned shadow.

"Fine. I'll be fine, remember?" He tilted his head toward their daughter, and Cuddy immediately remembered the audience and dropped back into reassurance.

"Of course you will. It's just going to take some time. But meanwhile, move a little more slowly, okay?"

"Not like I've got a choice," he snapped, but then he reached out to Rachel. "It's all right, Rachel. So, guess what? Tonight just got even better. If your mother agrees, we'll get to have a double header, complete with alliteration."

Rachel looked totally confused. "Litereration?"

"That means things that go together. Pizza and presents!"

Cuddy sighed. "Greg, you need good, nutritious food to heal," she started, but Rachel had already keyed in on the second word now as she hadn't when he first came in.

"Presents! Yay!" She twirled a quick circle.

"And pizza, hopefully. Which is quite nutritious. Tomato is a vegetable, cheese is dairy and calcium to help bones heal, meat is even more protein, which also helps muscles and tissue recuperate, and the crust is grain. In fact, with a bit of pineapple on top, a pizza can meet all food groups! How healthy can you get?"

His blue eyes were sparkling, and Cuddy knew she was losing the battle. "Maybe. We'll talk about it. But we do have to eat other things this week, too."

Rachel stopped her victory lap long enough to ask, "Where are the presents?"

"In the living room," House directed. She galloped out the bedroom door, and House and Cuddy were left looking at each other silently.

"What. . ." he started, then stopped the question partway as if afraid to admit it mattered to him.

"They were just talking after she woke up about how all injuries heal. He was reassuring her, and it worked. He's good with kids, Greg." She leaned over for as deep a kiss as they could manage considering his ribs at the moment. "I was scared to death yesterday," she said as they parted.

He stiffly slid his right arm around her, holding her while still bracing his side with his left. "I'll be _okay_, Lisa. We'll both be okay." She buried her face against him.

Rachel spoke up from the doorway. "Mama! Daddy! Thomas has the presents and is making us wait! Come _on_!"

Laughing, they split from the fears of yesterday back into the family of the moment. "All right, Rachel. We're coming. Why don't I order the pizza, and then we'll get presents in a few minutes. We'll see you in the living room, Greg."

Cuddy and Rachel left, giving him privacy. Mostly privacy. The white cat was still there, looking analytical and concerned herself. "Sacks," House offered. "There are sacks in the living room. I brought them just for a cat present." She didn't budge. With a stifled groan, he heaved himself to his feet, gave himself a minute to define and adjust to the new shape of the pain, then hobbled toward the bathroom, leaning heavily on the quad cane. Belle was a white shadow, two feet behind, scampering forward through the door at the last moment to supervise as he tried to close it in her face. "I _can_ do this alone, you know. I have for years." She gave him a look of unshakeable confidence in the necessity of her presence.

It was only as he was washing his hands that another point of contrast with the past hit him. He had automatically fit the pain of the broken ribs, familiar pain, to the old framework, remembering how to best move to accommodate it. He hadn't remembered point by point until now how in his childhood, there had been no professional bandages, just his own efforts with Ace wraps, no painkillers beyond the carefully smuggled and inadequate OTC meds hidden in his own private medicine chest from which he attempted to doctor himself, and there had been no concerned eyes or questions of "you okay?" No commiseration over hell day, and he'd had hell days to make yesterday look like a picnic. No, back then, there had only been solitude and fear of the consequences if he failed to suffer alone and let the truth slip, revealing it to others. Now, even with the similar pain, he had concern and love and pizza. He didn't have to hide his injury. He could openly heal, surrounded by family.

His ribs stabbed him again as he leaned forward to shut off the faucet, but suddenly, the pain seemed a little less. Not at all like the previous times, now that he thought about it. As he and Belle headed slowly for the living room, House thought that he didn't need a physical present tonight himself. In this life with his family, he had already been given a priceless one.

Still, it _would_ be fun, icing on the cake, to explore that little electronic racing game.


	37. Chapter 37

A/N: Here's the conclusion of this three-part chapter. Two chapters left in the story, neither of which is very long, so probably will in fact be only two chapters.

(H/C)

The presents were a big hit all around. Rachel was delighted at the Breyer horses, running her hands over every line of their bodies almost reverently, as if touching a real horse. House was careful to point out that these were breakable (his ribs knew exactly how breakable, not that she was likely to get similarly tossed onto one in a heavy fall by the combined force of a tackle and a bomb). They were hardly made of glass, but they could not take the rough handling that her stuffed Ember did. But Rachel seemed struck by the same quality that had made him buy the model for her in the first place, the realism. These did not look like toys. They looked like horses. She was fascinated and, in her best toddler efforts, respectful with them.

Abby liked the unicorn and was intrigued by the bugle, but her favorite tonight was the child's puzzle. She was familiar with basic shape puzzle toys, the round peg through the round hole, but she had long since been bored with those. Assembling pieces into a coherent picture was a new challenge, and they had to pull her away from it to eat when the pizzas arrived. She gravitated back to the puzzle on the coffee table like a magnet afterward, and much to the pride of her parents and her grandfather, she actually did manage to work the 20-piece puzzle all by herself, even if it took a little while. Her attention never wavered from the task. Belle frisked in the sacks, and Cuddy simply sat there watching her family and slowly unwinding a few more turns after yesterday.

As for the electronic racing game, House got that out of the box as soon as the girls were settled. Thomas was a willing partner, but it was obvious to the diagnostician that he still had a headache and that the sound and light effects weren't doing much for it, so after only two "races," House put the game aside for the evening. After eating the pizza, they wound up watching a movie, Rachel with the stuffed Ember in her lap and the Breyers arranged in a line next to her, Abby finishing the puzzle at first before focusing on the screen, House and Cuddy on the couch, Thomas in the recliner.

Nothing was said about bedtime, but Cuddy thought after all the stress of yesterday and last night that the girls weren't going to be able to stay up too late, even with their long nap. Sure enough, only the adults remained awake by the closing credits, although Thomas already was looking worn out again. House still looked quite tired himself. Cuddy quietly got to her feet and switched the TV off. "I'll take them back to the nursery and tuck them in. You two need an early night, but don't head for bed yet, Thomas. We need to make sure all your cuts are doing okay." She picked up Rachel and the stuffed Ember. "I'll be back in a minute for Abby."

She headed down the hall, and House looked over at the recliner. "How's the headache, old man?" he asked.

"Probably my favorite headache I've ever had. I'm enjoying it." House looked away, not feeling like playing at the moment, and Thomas dropped the joking tone - although he had been serious, too. "It's still there but better than it was before the nap."

"It will probably let up by tomorrow." House studied the line of model horses, remembering his fall - and the old man jumping on him.

"We'll get more into that game then. How are you feeling?" Thomas asked.

House shrugged and changed the subject. "I want to see that sonata," he said abruptly.

Thomas looked from him to the piano in silent analysis. He knew his son wouldn't be able to play the piano right now with any kind of freedom of movement, but pointing that out would only annoy him. Thomas heaved himself to his feet with a sigh. "It's in my suitcase." He started for the bedroom.

Just as he was turning into the room, Cuddy exited the nursery. She spotted him and hurried down the hall. "Wait a minute," she protested. "We need to check you out first, plus taking your temperature. You also need to take another dose of meds."

"I was just getting something from my suitcase." Thomas stopped in the door and reached out to touch her arm, his warm, living fingers giving her a reassuring squeeze. "_Relax_, Lisa."

She sighed. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to sound like your mother."

"You must just be channeling her necklace." His light tone was at odds with the deep understanding in his eyes. She gave him a grateful smile and a return squeeze on his good arm, then left him and went on into the living room to fetch her younger daughter.

By the time Thomas returned to the living room, House had hauled himself up and moved over to the piano. He was sitting on the bench, not playing or even touching the keyboard, just looking at it. Thomas came over and handed him the sheets. House looked surprised. "This is the original. I thought you said you copied your life in quadruplicate to disaster proof yourself."

"I do. I have another copy myself, and two more are in storage at different locations. But yes, that's the original. I specifically wanted you to have that one." House gave him an odd, searching look, not as much skepticism now as bewilderment. That was at least progress, Thomas thought. Damn John House. "The original definitely belongs to you, Greg."

House put it on the music rack, looking at it longingly, but he still didn't reach for the keyboard. He knew Thomas was right; he wasn't up to playing. The music would be horribly stiff right now, and he couldn't stand to do it wrong. "You've had somebody else play it just so you could hear it, haven't you?" he asked. Of course, it wasn't realistic that this would go straight from Timothy Thornton's hands to his, jumping across 60 years without anybody else touching it along the way, but he still felt almost jealous, even while telling himself that was ridiculous.

Thomas nodded. "Yes, but I wished even then it had been you playing. I wanted to know if I'd ever heard _him_ playing this one. If so, I don't remember it." He sighed. "But I wasn't paying the closest of attention in my childhood. Never occurred to me back then as a kid that it all might be about to end." He looked at the manuscript, his father's writing, remembering, then pulled himself back to the present. "I've thought of trying to pick out the melody myself just one note at a time, but I've resisted temptation so far. Old dogs can learn new tricks, but it does take a while."

"I still can't believe you've started piano lessons."

"I'm enjoying them, even if I haven't got any talent at it. The determination is there now. I also have a lot of fun watching the expressions on the students before and after me every week as I arrive and leave. _They_ can't believe it, either."

House gave a soft chuckle. Cuddy reappeared from the hallway, then froze, looking at them both over by the piano. "Come on in, Lisa. I wasn't playing anything," House said. He didn't add the current reasons; they both knew those as well as he did. "We were just talking while we waited for you."

She dissected through the tones of that invitation and concluded that he actually _wanted_ to be interrupted. Still, she reminded herself of Patterson's advice. The two of them would need time and space to talk this week. She was glad that her husband actually _was_ talking to Thomas now, even if he was still holding back on the emotionally charged topics. Conversation at all was a huge step forward from pure challenge. "Let's see your back, Thomas. How are you feeling?"

"A little ragged, but things are improving. I think another good night's sleep will make a lot of difference." He started working his arm out of the sling as he walked stiffly across the room toward her, and she met him partway, helping to take it off. He ran his left arm through a tentative range of motion. "I think my shoulder's going to be okay. It's just aching." He started unbuttoning his shirt, and House pried himself off that marvelous therapeutic piano bench cushion and came over to inspect the cuts for himself at close range. Cuddy helped Thomas slip the shirt off, and she tenderly pulled off the dressings that were over the largest spots to give him some padding and protection, trying not to hurt him and going so slowly that he wished she would just give it a rip and get it over with. She and her husband both surveyed the damage.

"Looking pretty good," House commented. "I don't see any of them starting to get infected." He took refuge in the medical facts, but every cut and scrape reminded him of the reason why the old man's back had taken most of the debris. Cuddy was silent; she didn't trust herself to speak for a moment, but as her husband turned away to sit down on the couch, hitting his short current time limit for standing, Cuddy gave Thomas' arm a squeeze, trying to pick an unbruised spot. He turned his head, and his eyes met hers.

"Once the cuts get past 48 hours, we can take showers," House said. "Unfortunately, the hot tub is out for a few weeks. That would really work the kinks out, but it would also be asking for an infection."

"I'm looking forward to even a shower. No offense to the ER staff who cleaned me up last night, but I prefer to do it myself."

Cuddy started for the bathroom. "I'll get some more dressings. I'll grab the thermometer, too. That's actually in the discharge orders, not just me worrying. Temperatures twice a day." She returned after a minute with antibiotic ointment and gauze patches and redressed the worst spots on his back, wishing that he could lie down a little more comfortably. She then added antibiotic ointment to the gash on his temple - that one was uncovered, being not as likely to come in contact with surfaces as his back. Afterwards, she took Thomas' temperature and then her husband's, which were 99.2 and 99.1.

Thomas waited for the verdict on his son, but then he picked up his shirt and started slowly for the guest room. "I'm going on to bed," he said. "Good night, Greg. Good night, Lisa."

"Good night, Thomas," Cuddy replied. "I'll get you another glass of water." He already had his pills in there.

After delivering the water and making herself not wait to supervise the pills, she came back into the living room to find House on his feet again, standing by the piano, looking at the music. She paused for a moment, making sure that his body language was open to her, then joined him. "Sonata," she read. It was signed TT in the upper right corner.

"This is the only surviving piece of Grandad's original compositions," House said. He read the music as easily as a book, hearing it in his head - but that wasn't the same as playing it.

Cuddy carefully slid an arm around him. "I'm looking forward to hearing it in a few days." They stood there until she felt him start sagging against her, though his eyes were still devouring the music. "Come on, Greg. Let's go to bed."

He jolted back from musicland to full consciousness of the pain. "There's an invitation I never turn down," he joked, but he was too tired and achy to even put much feeling into it. He knew that the bed activity tonight would be limited to sleep.

They made the slow trek down the hall together, her pace matching his current limits. The guest room door was open, and both of them glanced in as they went by. Thomas was already in bed. Once they got to their own room, Cuddy closed the door behind them, and House raised an eyebrow, surprised that she could stand putting a barrier between herself and the rest of the household at the moment.

"I'll open it again before I go to sleep," she answered the unspoken question. "I wanted to talk to you for a minute. If you feel like it, that is."

"What's up?" He stopped in the middle of the floor, and she urged him gently on.

"Go ahead and sit down, Greg." He resumed his sore route to the bed, easing himself down onto the mattress, though he stayed sitting up, looking at her with a "spill it" expression. "Greg, if I go too far this week, if I'm trying to over control things or hurting the two of you or turning into a total bitch again, please, _tell_ me. I was so scared yesterday, but I don't ever want something like last year to happen again. Don't let it go that far. _Please_, talk to me."

He opened his right arm in silent invitation, and she sat down on the side of the bed next to him, sliding close but still tense with the urgency of the request. He gave her a direct answer, not joking, not evading. "I will. But you're doing fine, Lisa."

"I know I'm trying to keep track of meds and worrying about infection, but that really _was_ part of the doctor's orders. And you two _do_ need to rest and eat and take care. . ."

He bent his head and silenced her by kissing her, though he was careful not to lean his body over too far. "You're doing fine, Lisa," he repeated a minute later. "Yes, you're rattled, but you're only human. You're at least admitting you were scared, and that's miles ahead of last year. We aren't filming the sequel to hell week here. It's okay. Just do one thing for me."

"What's that, Greg?"

"Talk to Patterson about things," he requested.

She nodded. "I will. In fact, I'll call her tonight. We'll have a session on it, and I'm sure that won't be the last one."

He studied her still-exhausted face. "Could you hold me until I'm asleep first?" he asked. She agreed, of course; no woman could turn down that request. As soon as they were ready for bed, she reopened the door, and then they both settled in, snuggled as close together as his ribs would permit. As he'd expected, she fell asleep rapidly herself, even before he did. He remembered the old man manipulating Rachel earlier this afternoon. Like daughter, like mother. He was smiling in spite of the pain as he dropped into sleep.

(H/C)

Wilson looked around, double checking the moment. The waiter had just left after removing their plates. Dessert waited in front of each of them. The food had been marvelous. The soft music was perfect, and each discretely separated table in the dining room had candles on it. Sandra looked relaxed, enjoying the evening. He reached into his pocket, brushing the ring box with his fingers. "Sandra, I want to tell you something. In all the years, I've never met anyone like you. Never. You are beautiful, compassionate, strong, loving - you're what I've been looking for. I want to spend the rest of our lives together." He paused a paranoid second to give calamity a last chance, but the offer wasn't claimed. He stood up and then dropped to one knee, pulling out the ring. "Will you marry me?"

Her smile as the ring was opened was what he would always remember first when looking back on tonight. That and the fact that there was no hesitation at all. "Yes. Oh, yes. I will marry you, James Wilson."

Applause startled them, and they looked up to see the nearest tables getting into the scene. The wave of recognition swept across the restaurant, and before long, all of the other diners were applauding. Oddly, Wilson had forgotten in the actual moment that he was in public. Now, he appreciated the picture they must be making, the perfect moment and proposal, but he appreciated her even more. House was right. _She_ was what he wanted, what mattered, not the moment. He pulled her out of her chair and slipped the ring on her finger, then kissed her.

As they sat back down a minute later, Sandra tilted her hand, letting the diamond catch the candlelight, admiring it, then smiled at her fiance across the table. Together, eagerly, they started making plans, both of them excited about the future, but her smile also had a private layer behind it. Maybe, she thought, in ten years or so, she might tell James that she had worked out back as far as Friday night from his nervousness his true plans for this weekend, and he had had her sympathetic understanding and appreciation from Saturday on as the crisis interrupted his first attempt and everything went haywire. Yes, maybe in ten years. But she sure wasn't going to tell him tonight.


	38. Chapter 38

A/N: Only one chapter left in the story. After that, we will probably have a bit of a gap, as neither the floating one-shot nor the next long story is ready to go yet. The one-shot will most likely finish cooking faster, being far less complex.

Thanks to everyone for coming along with me on this latest roller coaster. The last chapter of Father's Day, my favorite, was written down long ago already on a day when I needed a pick-me-up, so it won't be long. I'll give this chapter a day or two for reviews, as I don't want the final chapters to be seen as a "two for the price of one" special, but it should be up before the end of the weekend.

(H/C)

Cuddy stepped into the shower and let out a sigh as the hot water hit her body. She stood there and let it wash away the remnants of tension from her muscles, and the steam rose to surround her. Ahh. This was wonderful. She was abstaining from the hot tub in unspoken sympathy until House could use it, but this shower was the most unclaimed time purely for relaxation for herself that she'd had so far this week.

It was Tuesday afternoon, and the girls were taking a nap. House had urged her to indulge in a nice, hot shower, lingering and enjoying herself, that he would call if the girls woke up and needed anything that they couldn't handle physically. Thomas had seconded the motion, telling her to take her time, that she deserved it. Cuddy felt a little guilty at punching out on the time clock, but she also hoped that House would take the opportunity of her absence for some tentative private conversation with Thomas. He seemed to want some time alone with him at the moment, which was a step in the right direction.

Her husband had been very quiet the last few days, the perpetual challenge to his father faded, at least, but it was as if he didn't quite know what to replace it with or how to start. Neither he nor Thomas had mentioned what had happened during those hours of being trapped together in the shattered wreckage Saturday, and Cuddy hadn't asked for details. Thomas was rapidly improving at modern video games and had even beaten his son a few times now, but as near as Cuddy could tell, they hadn't actually talked about anything that mattered. _Patience_, she reminded herself, repeating Patterson's advice from last night when she let herself admit privately to some frustration. The future was going to be so great for the whole family that she was eager to get there without delay, but this was a whole new country for House, and he needed to explore it at his own pace.

The girls were doing amazingly well with this week. They looked rather worried at times when watching House and Thomas move, but both of the men were also putting on a great front for them and downplaying things. Thomas had taught Rachel all the technical terms for the colors of her various Breyer horses, and Abby never tired of working and reworking her puzzle.

House had even managed to give Abby a piano lesson earlier this morning, which didn't require as much freedom of movement as playing himself. That had been the first Abby lesson in a long time that Rachel had been present for, and both of her parents kept glancing at her, weighing her reaction, but being in the middle of a discussion of horses with Thomas on the other side of the room, she didn't seem too bothered by her sister's ability. She even looked impressed the few times she was paying attention. Cuddy thought Thomas would be marvelous for Rachel especially; they connected so well. Maybe horses would be her own passion. More and more, Cuddy and House realized that Rachel didn't particularly enjoy music. Not that she disliked it, but it was her _father_ playing that held the attraction. Without him, it quickly bored her.

Abby. Cuddy turned, letting the hot spray run down across her back, working on the final tightness hiding there. She wished Abby would accept Thomas a little more, but that, too, was going slowly, not challenging like her father had been at first, simply gathering and analyzing data. Abby had always been reserved with strangers and built acceptance at her own pace.

As for the invalids, Thomas was starting to feel better. Cuddy could tell from the brightness in his eyes, the easing of his expression. Still very stiff and sore, still battered and moving painfully, but he was doing much better Monday and today than he had Sunday. He was healing more quickly. Of course, he didn't have broken ribs, which would simply take time, nor a chronic pain problem in the first place. Still, Cuddy had caught her husband analyzing his movements a few times with shielded envy. The fact that his 75-year-old father was bouncing back faster was a bitter pill to swallow, no matter how much he could recite the relevant medical facts.

House himself was still barely able to move, and his leg was as insulted as it had been in years. The stronger meds helped but didn't eliminate the problem. Cuddy did note to her surprise that he was sleeping soundly without nightmares and without raising the dose on the sleeping pills. She had worried about dreams of being trapped, but if anything woke him up at night, it was simply his body's protest at moving wrong. Belle, with unfailing feline pain radar, was infinitely careful with him, usually pressed up against him in bed rather than climbing on top, but she, too, was staying close.

Wilson and Sandra had come over Monday evening after work, picking up Daniel as well as Chinese for everybody on the way. House had already called Monday morning, interrupting the oncologist at work, of course, to demand a verdict on the night before. Once they arrived Monday night, conversation had centered on congratulations and plans. Both of them wanted a small wedding, just a few friends. Sandra had never been married, but her parents were dead, so any big wedding with all stops pulled out would have simply underlined their absence to her as she walked down the aisle either alone or with a substitute for the father she missed so much. Cuddy knew she had been very close to her parents. Wilson had only his brother left, and Danny was still not independently functional, living in an assisted care facility for adults. He would be invited for the wedding, but the simpler the occasion the better for him. Nobody directly mentioned that this would be Wilson's fourth trip to the altar, but he did say himself once, "This time, it's going to last," not as a hope but as a promise.

The House clan was definitely on the limited guest list. That got Rachel tripped off asking what weddings were like and if animals ever came, and House told her that she herself had been at theirs, so she already had wedding experience. She didn't remember, of course, but the disk of photos was brought out, and everybody, including Thomas, who was seeing them for the first time, and Wilson and Sandra from their new perspective and anticipation, enjoyed reliving that day. Abby did ask where she had been, and once her location was pointed out, she noted Cuddy's emerging baby bump at every pictorial opportunity.

Cuddy had had a long session with Patterson by phone last night after Wilson and Sandra and Daniel had left and everybody else in the house was asleep. She still felt rattled by events, but talking through it helped, as did Patterson's reassurance. House had even told her again last night, "You're doing fine, Lisa," before they went to bed. She was trying her best, determined to make this time different. This hot shower _did_ feel good, and she pictured it washing tension down the drain, leaving not only her body but her soul clean and refreshed, an image Patterson had suggested to her a few times for use on difficult days.

The mail delivery in late morning had been an eventful one. There was an overnight package for her husband from Middletown which proved to be fudge from Cathy and a homemade get-well card which had a respectable childhood attempt at drawing a kitten batting notes off a music score. That package caught House totally by surprise. The other packages, also on overnight shipping, had been expected; he and Thomas had both ordered replacement cell phones Monday, though Thomas' had been delivered to House with his own name not appearing on the outside of the box. The mail man was none the wiser about their undercover house guest. The two men had spent an hour after that programming and setting up the new ones while the girls played with their new toys.

House's other interest the last few days, besides just studying Thomas live, was following the media. He devoured every story he could find on the internet or, when the girls weren't around, on TV. The media was trying to track down details of Thomas and had uncovered that he was a former Marine, but the more interesting parts of his service weren't publicly available. Lucas had admitted last year to going to illegal means to obtain them, and even he hadn't had all the details. Apparently, no reporters had been willing to go that far yet. They instead settled for statements from friends and neighbors in St. Louis. Everybody in Thomas' life liked him, much to House's confusion; he'd even noted it out loud to Cuddy last night. None of them had trouble believing his actions, but to them, he was simply a respected neighbor and a good friend. At least that was the official version they gave in the stories, as House commented. "Nobody is liked this much, Lisa," he protested, but it wasn't a challenge as much as wonder.

The media was leaving the House angle mostly to the background, although a few reporters had been around PPTH. But those were content to accept "he's injured but healing" and wished him well. From House's perspective, this was nothing like the circus at the time of the trial. Cuddy couldn't help commenting to him when they were alone last night that he should be grateful Thomas had given them an alternate and fresh, undissected focus. He had immediately changed the subject.

How long had she been in here? The water was starting to lose a little bit of its edge, though it wasn't yet cold. Reluctantly but also guiltily, she switched it off. Stepping out, she couldn't help hurrying a little in drying off and getting dressed. Part of her hoped that she hadn't missed a call from House with some need of the girls (_come on, Lisa,_ she scolded herself, _he would have just gotten louder until you _did_ hear him_), but the other part hoped that he and Thomas had made productive use of the time. They needed to talk to each other or at least to _be_ with each other, needed some private time. Patterson was right.

Giving the door knob an ostentatious rattle, broadcasting her imminent reappearance, she exited the bathroom and headed straight for the living room. She could hear Thomas' voice, but the tone sounded a little stiff to her, not quite himself, that fact registering even before the words did. She entered the room and froze at the edge of it, and all the relaxation just gained by the long, hot shower fell away from her as she stared in disbelief.

(H/C)

Both men had sat in silence as Cuddy entered the main bathroom, but their ears were straining in that direction, all attention on sharp focus. As soon as they heard the shower turn on, Thomas went into action. He stood up too quickly, in fact, and gave a hiss of pain as his muscles all protested. Pushing on, he made his best pace to the bedroom and returned a moment later with his laptop and with the _second_ phone he had ordered, the anonymous, no-contract, pay-as-you-go phone along with the card to fill it. He had been careful not to let his daughter-in-law see that one as they opened the boxes earlier. Now, he handed his laptop to his son on the way to the recliner. "Look up your favorite reporter from the last few days, Greg, while I set this phone up."

House knew what the general plan was, but he had expected those actions to be reversed, him loading and activating the phone while Thomas searched out contact information. He had never expected to be _handed_ his father's laptop. Waiting for the catch, he switched it on, and the screen came up, requesting password. "What's your password?" he asked, expecting Thomas to recollect himself and take the laptop back in exchange for the phone. He'd never give his son his password. The old man wasn't that naive; he knew that if given, it would be used, and not just on this occasion.

Thomas never even looked up from the phone. "Emberly61," he replied. House stared, and Thomas gave him a smile a second later. "And no, I'm not going to change it tonight. You can have it, Greg. The world can't, but there's nothing in there I mind you seeing. Hurry up," he prompted. "I doubt Lisa is capable of loafing for too long, even when we told her to."

House typed it in, dissecting the password at the same time. "Your wife, your horse, and . . . the year you married her?"

"Yes. The wife, not the horse," Thomas couldn't resist adding.

House rolled his eyes and quickly started searching. A few minutes later, he looked up to find the old man obviously finished with the phone and just watching him. "Not like I've read everything out there," he lied, "and a lot of it's just labeled Associated Press, but the one with a byline I think has made the fewest mistakes with the story is Gene Weathers. He's with one of the stations in Philly." He gave the phone number of the TV station, and Thomas entered it on the keypad. "Sure you want to do this yet, old man?"

"Yes. Preliminary short version, anyway. I don't want them to keep ramping up the pestering of my friends while they can't find me, and besides, you deserve to hear it, and not by watching it on TV." He glanced at his watch. "How long do you think we've got?"

House consulted his own watch. "Another 15 minutes, tops."

Thomas dialed, and House started browsing in the laptop, maintaining a nonchalant air, but as soon as the phone was answered, he was totally focused. "I'd like to speak to Gene Weathers, please. This is Thomas Thornton. Yes, _that_ Thomas Thornton. Yes, I'll hold. But hurry up," he added, sotto voce.

Finding time when Lisa wasn't right on top of them was tricky. She was obviously trying to give them space, but she was never far away, either. He was surprised that she hadn't been more suspicious about why they both urged her to take a long shower, but she must be hoping they were going to talk. Not quite up to _real_ talking yet, but he thought plotting together was a step in the right direction. Greg and, he admitted, he himself had enjoyed planning a short press conference behind her back over the last day. He smiled. Tim had been fun, too, but Greg had even more of his father's flavor, reminding Thomas irresistibly of Timothy Thornton the first. He wished those two could have met, although he wondered what shock waves they would have left now and then around their environment whenever they got in full stride together.

The phone came to life in his ear, and he pushed speaker, setting it on his knee. "Mr. Thornton? Are you there?" Gene Weathers sounded slightly out of breath, as if retrieved in a hurry from whatever else he had been doing.

"Yes, I'm here."

"Thank you for calling. I. . . first of all, I do need to tell you I'm recording this."

"I assumed that." Thomas settled into easy, almost friendly conversation, a role he was very used to. His son watched from the couch in fascination, the open laptop on his lap forgotten. "It's all right. You're welcome to quote me. In fact, I'm sure the link to your story will be shared by several other news sites, but you're getting it first. I've appreciated how you have handled reporting what happened last weekend."

"Thank you. So, Mr. Thornton, forgive me for starting off on this note, but how do I know you're actually yourself and not an imposter?"

"Any of my friends would vouch for my voice. Try Lewis Palmer; call him and play him a bit of the recording before you publish it. He's been quoted by a few reporters already." Thomas rattled his phone number off from memory. "I do appreciate your devotion to accuracy, though. I know there are crackpots and attention seekers who call in related to stories."

"Yes, we meet plenty of them." Weathers switched into interviewing mode. "I hope you're recovering physically from your injuries Saturday."

"Yes, I am, slowly. I'm still not close to 100%, and I'm not sure how long my strength is going to last today." House grinned at that, filling in the true translation that they weren't sure how long Cuddy's shower was going to last. "But I'm healing."

"Were you hurt badly?"

"I had a concussion and a bad cut on the head which led to a lot of blood loss, and I needed transfusions for that. Dislocated left shoulder and several cuts and bangs. Nothing that time won't fix."

"What made you first suspect Dale Barrett at the track?"

"He looked like he was there for some special purpose. He was obviously on a mission, and it wasn't just enjoying a day at the races."

"You were in the Marines. Did your training there help you in spotting him?"

Thomas tensed up for the first time. The difference in his voice was subtle, but House caught it. "It assisted, yes, but anyone observant who was really watching him would have noticed something off in his attitude."

"What exactly did you do in the Marines, Mr. Thornton?"

"I worked as a translator." That was the official cover story, anyway.

Weathers didn't sound quite convinced, scenting more, but he already had been warned of the possible short time limit here. He pushed on. "Back to Saturday, once you noticed Barrett, you asked Dr. House for his opinion, right?"

"Yes. He was at the races, too, and I had been quite interested in reading all the coverage of the Chandler trial last year." True enough, technically, even if with large holes in the story.

"Then the two of you went to Security. How do you feel about the actions the track took?"

"I understand them wanting to verify myself and Dr. House. Like we just said, crackpots are out there who are only seeking attention. But I do think they should have also sent someone to watch Barrett at the same time and should have warned Josh Parker."

"So you and Dr. House decided to warn the betting clerk yourself."

"That wasn't preplanned, but I saw an opportunity when he went on break, and I took it."

"What happened in the bathroom with Barrett?" Weathers was a professional, but he couldn't keep the eagerness out of his voice as he got down to this part of the story.

"We showed Josh Parker a picture of Barrett on my cell phone, and he identified him and immediately called his wife to warn her. While he was talking to her, Barrett came in. Dr. House was trying to talk Barrett down, but the man was unbalanced. He wasn't going to be diverted from his mission. Then after taunting Josh for a minute, enjoying having him trapped, he started forward, and I knew nothing would shake him then. So I grabbed Dr. House's cane and threw it."

"What made you think of that?"

"It was the only possible weapon. Tackling him directly would have just set off the bomb and killed me immediately; that was the one long-distance tool within reach that might do the trick."

"Quick thinking, even so. What were your thoughts at that moment? Were you scared?"

Thomas looked directly at his son. "Yes," he admitted with full conviction. "I was scared." He didn't tell Weathers that his fear hadn't been for himself, but his eyes communicated that clearly. "As for my thoughts, I was hoping that the bomb wasn't too powerful. Barrett was starting to approach Josh Parker, who was clear across the room. He wanted a direct-contact explosion. I hoped that wasn't only psychological but because he wasn't as sure of his bomb at a distance. If it wasn't powerful enough to kill us long range, then by knocking him back into the entry passageway, we had a chance. If it was powerful enough after all, well, we were going to die no matter what I did. So there was nothing to lose and possibly everything to gain by throwing the cane at him." House turned his head toward the bathroom, and Thomas realized that the shower had shut off. "I'm going to have to go in a minute, Mr. Weathers. I'm getting tired."

"Just a few last questions. Your actions in containing the explosion between those very solid entryway walls most likely saved several people beyond just the three of you. How do you feel about that?"

Thomas was really tightening up now. The old man truly didn't want the publicity, House thought. He had no interest in being a hero. Yet he was one, whether he wanted to be or not. Weathers' statement was perfectly true. Thomas _had_ saved several lives that day. "I'm glad for how things turned out, of course. But I was only doing what anyone else in that situation would have done."

"I doubt that, Mr. Thornton. I'm sure it was only Dr. House's disability that kept him from doing something similar." House tensed up himself there with a stifled growl of resentment. "But most people would not be able to think or react that fast. Is that something else that ties back to your Marine service?"

"The ability to throw straight is inherent. It can be developed, but basically, you either have it or you don't. Fortunately, thanks to genetics, I have it, so it was there when I needed it Saturday."

"But have you encountered similar situations in your past service?"

The bathroom door rattled and opened, and Thomas quickly turned off the speaker, putting the phone back up to his ear as he replied. "I have _never_ run into an unbalanced bomber during my years in the service. I'm very proud of having been a Marine, but I had never run into a situation like Saturday before. I did what I had to, but I'd never had any sort of rehearsal for it."

Cuddy stopped at the edge of the room in annoyed disbelief, and House hurt himself twisting around on the couch to raise his finger to his lips and shush her. "I have to go now, Mr. Weathers," Thomas concluded. "The headache is coming back again." He didn't specify _whose_ headache, so again, technically not a lie.

"One final question," Weathers said, reluctant to end this exclusive. "What is your opinion of Dr. House?"

Thomas had been about to cut him off and hang up anyway, but he stopped to answer that one, even repeating the question for his son's benefit. "What is my opinion of Dr. House? He is every bit as brilliant and observant and compassionate as the media said last summer. I was honored to have him with me through that ordeal Saturday. Now, Mr. Weathers . . ."

"What about the hours being trapped waiting for rescue? How much of that were you conscious for? What were your thoughts? Do you think the workers acted quickly enough to reach you?"

"Final answer. I have _no_ complaints with how the rescue was conducted. That building was unstable, and we could hear it falling apart in pieces. If they had tried to move quickly instead of planning it out and taking time to place the braces, the whole thing would have collapsed on top of us. Good bye for now, Mr. Weathers." He hit end, cutting off the reporter's next comment.

Cuddy was sputtering. "You . . . that was . . . you _can't_ give a media conference yet."

"Oops," House commented. "Okay, old man, she said you can't. Better call the station back and tell him to erase the recording and forget all about it."

"Damn it. You need to be focusing on _healing_, Thomas."

Thomas gave her a reassuring smile, but he couldn't keep the laughter out of his eyes, too, a look very similar to his son's at the moment. Yes, he had deliberately plotted this behind her back, and yes, he had enjoyed pulling it off. "I _am_ healing, Lisa. I promise. It was just a short phone call, not tossing myself live into a whole room full of reporters. And I _did_ hang up on him at the end."

House took a square of fudge out of Cathy's box on the coffee table and munched. "This is really good, Lisa. You ought to have some; nothing improves a woman's mood like chocolate. Did you enjoy your shower?"

Cuddy turned away and stalked toward the kitchen, deliberately letting mugs clink and rattle as she started making three cups of herbal tea. They had had several cups in the last few days; she knew it would help those two injured, infuriating conspirators in their recovery. It wasn't until a few minutes later as she was removing the bags from the hot water that the smile started. She couldn't help it. She remembered Wilson's comment at one point back in Lexington in January: "Sure you want two of them?" She stood there by the counter waiting until she had full control of her features again before re-entering the living room to distribute the prescribed tea.


	39. Chapter 39

_"Tell me that I need be a stranger no more." Stranger in Paradise_, _Kismet_

(H/C)

Late Wednesday morning, they were contentedly sprawled around the living room, House on the couch leaning against Cuddy with his leg stretched out and propped on the coffee table on a pillow, Thomas in the recliner, the girls on the floor next to the couch, close to their parents but not climbing on their father's many sore points. Belle supervised from the arm of the couch. Abby had her stuffed unicorn and Rachel the stuffed Ember, and a line of Breyers watched TV from the coffee table. This was the first day since the bomb that House could tell a real difference physically. His ribs still stabbed him on any sudden or incautious movement, but the general aches and bangs were starting to retreat, and while his leg hadn't forgiven him yet for being in an explosion, it was at least beginning to consider it.

The end credits began to roll on the current family movie, and Thomas reached up with his good arm to scratch cautiously around the long line of stitches across his right temple. "Quit that!" Cuddy scolded. He gave her an unrepentant grin but obligingly dropped the offending hand.

"Quit what?" Rachel asked, puzzled.

"It's all right, Rachel. I was talking to Thomas, not you. He needs to leave things along, or they'll never heal right." Cuddy moved her husband's head gently off her shoulder and came to her feet with an ease that both of the men envied at the moment. "Does anybody want a drink? Anything else? Should we watch another movie?"

"Yay!" Rachel nodded vigorously. She was worried a little whenever she watched her father and Thomas move, but she also was loving the extended time together these days without that annoying adult place called work that took her parents away. "Milk, please, and I wanna watch Aristocats."

Abby set the unicorn aside and stood up. "You need something, Abby?" Cuddy asked.

Her younger daughter ignored her and walked the few feet to Thomas' chair. She cautiously scrambled up into his lap, obviously being careful, and he helped her out gingerly, surprised and pleased. Once she got to where she was sitting on the arm, close as she could to eye level, she tilted her head and nailed him with those blue eyes, her father's and his father's, on full differential. "Who are you?" she asked.

Rachel laughed. "It's just _Thomas, _silly."

"I'm a friend," Thomas told her. He smiled at her, and even in the increasing tension of the moment, part of him was appreciating bilaterally the difference in his granddaughters in personality. Abby might be far quieter than Rachel and slower to connect, but when she did communicate, she came directly to the point, and her perception was amazing. These last few days of time together and slow healing that he had been appreciating (as was Greg, Thomas thought, not that his son had admitted it) were yielding unintended side effects. Clearly, she had seized the puzzle even if not quite sure what the end picture was, and he suspected that she would prove harder to distract than her older sister.

Sure enough, Abby shook her head, not buying the friend statement any longer. "Who _are _you?" she insisted.

Time seemed to pause, holding its breath. Thomas looked across at his son, and Abby tracked the look before turning to pin him down again. "Who?"

House jumped into the situation verbally even if he couldn't physically. "We'll talk about that sometime later, but right now, why don't we order a pizza? We can have that before watching the Aristocats."

"Not another pizza," Cuddy objected automatically. "We've already had pizza twice this week."

"NO!" Abby stubbornly refused to be diverted, although Rachel had started looking around in quest of that pizza-producing phone. Abby slid down off the arm of the recliner and walked over to her father, locking eyes with him now. He tried to sit up straighter to gain a little more space, and his ribs stabbed at him. "Not a same friend. Not like Wilson. Who?"

House looked helplessly at Cuddy. She stood silent but waiting, firmly refusing the hand-off. The ball was in his court, and Abby wasn't backing down. He tried to frame a suitable lie, but his mind was too full of wrestling the truth the last few days to come up quickly with a convincing one. He looked at the old man, who had chosen to leave him in that hell hole and remain in the background, who had laughed at him and told him he was where he belonged at age six, who had given him the music, who had saved his life on Saturday. He sighed. "He's . . . he's my father."

That got Rachel's attention fast, and she stood up, looking from House to Thomas. "He's your father?"

House nodded and then cringed, waiting for the questions and the demand for an explanation. Rachel's smile widened as this soaked in. "Yay! Like Grandpa?" she asked her mother.

"Yes, Rachel," Cuddy said. "Grandpa is _my _father. Thomas is Daddy's father."

Rachel scampered over to the side of his chair. "Like Grandpa, only he doesn't have a real horse, and you're _funny_. Is Ember my sister?" she asked him.

All three of the adults burst out laughing at that, House flinching and bracing his side a moment later. "Now _there_ I draw the line," House insisted.

Abby had been standing next to her father's knee all this time, just watching, but now she walked back to the recliner to eye the occupant steadily again. "Why. . ." she started, then stopped for supplemental consideration, and House braced himself. Abby was the analytical one. Here it came, the whole string of questions on the past. Why hadn't they known before, what was the big secret, and why hadn't the old man ever been around in their short lives prior to the last few months. House was _not_ going to tell his daughters at 2 1/2 and 3 1/2 about that bastard John, no matter how much they demanded details of ancient history. They were simply too young for it.

Abby finished framing her question, but it surprised him. It wasn't looking back, at least not trying to explain the past, just wondering about the logistics _now_. "Why are you far?" she asked.

"Relatives don't always live close, Abby," Thomas stated. "Your other grandparents don't live right here in town, either." Thank God for that, apparently. He was curious about them even more since that brief phone call he'd overheard Sunday morning, but he had to admit that he wasn't at his best right now with the injuries, and the consensus seemed unanimous that he would need to be when he finally did encounter them.

She looked back across at her father. "But . . ." She hesitated, looking for the word. It wasn't quite _want_, not that simple, but she knew there was something. Her father seemed different in some way she couldn't quite define when Thomas was around. This wasn't the same as Grandpa and Grandma's visits. Visitors always left, and he was glad to see them go, as was Mama even if she tried to pretend that she wasn't. But Abby didn't think her father really was looking forward to Thomas leaving. It was like seeing only part of the image on the pieces of her puzzle.

Thomas squirmed a bit under the blue microscope, powerful even if small, and then dodged. "I belong in my own house, Abby. I will visit, though, whenever you want me to."

She had caught his quick sidelong glance at her father as he answered, and the determined toddler trek across the living room was repeated. "Why is he far?"

House abruptly was caught by the simplicity of the question. She was asking not why _wasn't _he here, but why isn't he here? At least to her, the present and the future were the point, not the past. Was it that easy to accept his identity? No questions, at least not ones about things undone? For them, apparently it was. For himself, as much ground and yes, connection had been gained back in the dust and rubble and darkness at the racetrack, healing remained a work in progress, but maybe once in a while, he might learn from a 2 1/2-year-old's perspective. So many years lost, but some still remained, and those did have potential value. Did it make sense to delay what he and the family were offered now over a past that wasn't fixable anyway? "He lives far because he hasn't moved to this town yet," he replied.

Rachel gave an excited hop. "_When_ will you move here?" she asked Thomas.

He was watching his son, weighing the words and the more significant unspoken ones. "I guess I just hadn't gotten around to it," he said finally.

"Then _do _it," she demanded, full of impatience with the adult world. She didn't understand them at all sometimes.

He smiled at her. "Okay, Rachel. I promise, once I'm healed up from our little accident" - Cuddy couldn't help a silent eye roll, along with a fine inner tremor of her soul at what could have been represented by those innocent words _our little accident_ - "I'll move up to Princeton. It will take some time to get everything done, but I will, and I'll buy a house that's close. Okay?"

"Yay!" She scrambled up into the recliner, less carefully than her sister had, and Thomas tried not to flinch. She gave him a hug, then broke off a moment later to ask, "Can Ember come, too?"

"Of course Ember will come, too. I'd never leave her behind."

Rachel gave Thomas another happy hug, picturing both him _and_ the horse not being far. Abby looked at her father with her sunshine smile, and her chin went up. "Knew he's _some_body," she said. She looked like a miniature of himself after solving a case, the satisfaction simply oozing from her.

House reached out to ruffle her hair proudly, though he was still amazed and relieved at the lack of interrogation. "Yes, he's somebody."

"Good." He reached a little too far in touching her and winced, and she focused with quick concern. "You okay, Daddy?"

He carefully readjusted himself on the couch, and she moved closer. "I'm fine, Abby," he said, then quickly amended, "at least I will be."

She nodded, accepting it, leaning into his loving hand.

Rachel, in the recliner, released her hug. "Grandpa Thomas?" she asked.

He closed his eyes for just a second, reveling in it, then opened them again. "What is it, Rachel?"

"We need to celebrate. You know how we need to celebrate? _Pizza!_"

House looked up at Cuddy, the mischievous light she loved firing up in his eyes. "But your mother thinks we've had too many pizzas, Rachel. I guess we can't celebrate today with one after all, so we have to be stuck eating vegetables instead, even if he is my father. Go kill the fatted zucchini, Lisa."

She couldn't have summoned up a strict look for him right now if she had tried. "Oh, all right. We'll have pizza. We'll even have ice cream. Let's celebrate right."

"Yay!" Unable to stay still in the face of all of this, Rachel slid down from the chair to run a circle of the living room, snatching up her stuffed Ember along the way and prancing around to an accompaniment of hoofbeats. Cuddy picked up the phone and started to place the order, and Thomas and House looked at each other steadily across the distance still between but without the younger turning away this time. Thomas studied his son's eyes. The scars of the remembered pain remained, and not all questions had been settled, but there was also a tentative acceptance and a sort of release. He hadn't known quite how to bring it up without Abby's push, but he didn't regret the last five minutes. Thomas mouthed the silent words. _Thank you, Greg._ House's eyes shifted from his father's to look at his two daughters, then back again with a subtle warning delivered purely by expression. _Be good to them._

Cuddy hung up and walked over to kiss her husband. "Thank you, Greg," she said herself.

House shrugged. "Can't change biology, after all, even if I tried. But there are going to be ground rules. First of all, that D-A-M-N-E-D H-O-R-S-E isn't invited to the house, understand?"

The stuffed Ember whinnied as Rachel skidded to a halt. "Don't spell!" she protested.

The adults laughed, and then, as they waited for the pizza, they started discussing plans, the whole family together.


End file.
